‘They can’t be much worse than march flies.’ Tilly eyed the red lump on her wrist. It burnt and itched still, but only if she touched it.

‘That’s what you think,’ Luke supported Matt’s argument. ‘Tick bites irritate for months, especially if you just pull the body off and don’t get the head out. They’re tiny and damn near transparent so you never notice ’em till they’ve latched on.’

‘And they live in caves?’ Tilly quizzed, suspecting her leg was being pulled.

‘No, but wallabies hang around dry, shady spots like the country around the caves, so Matt’s right. It’s a good spot to pick ’em up.’

‘So – how do you avoid them?’

‘Don’t go there,’ Matt offered. ‘Knew a bloke once had a allergy to ticks. Damn near died from a bite.’

‘Just wear boots and tuck your pants into your socks,’ Sophie joined in. ‘And if you get a tick, don’t try to pull it off. Dab a bit of metho on it instead.’ She glanced around the table with a little smile. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you. I tried my hand at a pudding today. Who wants some?’ A silence followed as everybody waited for someone else to respond. Made cross by their hesitation, she snapped, ‘Well, don’t all speak at once.’

‘I will, Soph,’ Tilly said. ‘I’m sure it’ll be great. What did you make?’

By midnight Tilly had cause to regret her loyalty. The pie pastry had been almost inedible, resulting in a ferocious bout of indigestion that woke her and prevented further sleep. Despairing of it passing, she switched on her torch, found her slippers and made her way cautiously through to the kitchen in search of a remedy.

There were antacid tablets somewhere in the pantry cupboard, but the tidy shelves that she had maintained were now a jumbled mess. With a hand pressed to her burning chest, Tilly peered between cornflake packets and sauce bottles until she located what she sought, then moved to the sink for a glass. A mopoke called from the darkness, the sound drifting on the wind, and she shivered in the icy air of the kitchen.

She wondered dolefully how much of the pie remained and whether she could tactfully get rid of it. It was Luke’s turn to cook tomorrow, so she would be doing the camp by herself again. Maybe she could take a huge slice for lunch and ditch it somewhere? It was probably Sophie’s first attempt at pastry, and Tilly devoutly hoped it would be her last. Turning away from the sink, she caught the faint sound of a motor and cocked her head, wondering if it was her imagination. But no, there it was again, a quiet, steady hum below the soughing of the wind.