Then, just as unexpectedly as he arrived, Donnie left.

When Donnie didn’t return one evening, Jack assumed that he had run out of daylight during his now-daily search expedition. But when the next silent evening came, he knew that Donnie was gone. No planes had landed, so Jack reasoned he must have departed, opportunistically, on a passing boat.

His uncle had left behind his bag and his treasures. The only item Jack found to be missing was his best length of rope — his strongest rope, the one they had used to lash their raft. Donnie even left behind his beloved gold sovereigns, which had already dulled considerably since they first opened the tin.

~

Jack picks up the envelope left by the police. His eyes flick past the writing on the front, careful not to read it.

What’s the point of reading it?

It is a letter from Uncle Donnie, of course, with tales of his latest jaunts through Thailand and Vietnam, or musings over his past and his thoughts on being Aboriginal. How he misses his gold coins and, although he wishes he had taken them with him (to show off to his latest lady friend or his mates on the oil rig), he is glad they are still on the island, where they belong. That’s all that will be in the letter. Why should he read it? He’s got far too much to do.

Jack throws the envelope on the fire and walks outside. It is a hot day. He gets on his knees and works in the garden. After a time, he rises and wipes the sweat from his face with the inside of his t-shirt. He stands to full height, with his shirt raised to his chest, allowing the sea breeze to cool his body. His gaze moves across the horizon and over the islands in the distance. He can’t believe the police were on his island, only hours earlier. Did that really happen? If it wasn’t for the letter, now ashes in the fire, it might all have been a dream.

Jack’s gaze lands on his island and sweeps across the dry landscape, past the agave plant on the foreshore and the ruins of William Beeton’s hut, and settles on the dark she-oak forest nearby, where his eyes linger a little longer than he usually lets them.

SUMMER GIRL

You stare at me while I steer the old Holden through the 
 bends. It’s a look that says you will do anything for me — and I know you will. You have proven yourself on sweaty nights and lazy mornings. But not with love, so much as devotion.

‘Where are we going to camp?’ you ask, indicating the choice is mine. ‘I can’t wait until we’re in the tent together.’ You pull your legs up under you, allowing your whole body to face me.

My lower back hurts from the long drive and I stretch forward closer to the wheel and shift my hips from side to side.