They stared up at the breadfruit tree – there were only a few fruits left and they were very high. “Scout around for a long stick,” Emrallie said. “Try over there in the bamboo clump.”

It was almost a year since Sorrel had left Bana with her mother, almost a year since Bibi had gone. The Tribals had searched the banks of the river but had never found any trace of her – no blood on a rock, no body, none of her possessions. The chances of Bibi’s survival were slim, but Sorrel still talked to her in her mind as she composed herself for sleep. She wanted to thank her for her sacrifice, for saving her from having to choose. She often wondered if she would ever feel love like that.

“You never stop daydreaming,” Emrallie complained from the lowest crook of the breadfruit tree. “You found a stick yet?”

“Coming!” She was tired all the time now – her sleeplessness had returned. Dooley. Bibi had taught her that word to describe a mind made distracted and fuzzy by lack of proper sleep. She pushed her way into the dead bamboo grove. Some of the trunks on the ground crumbled as soon as she trod on them, and hordes of insects scattered. The ground under the fallen bamboo was damp and mosquitoes rose in clouds. She had got fever once in the past year, but with no lasting effects.

She wrestled with a slightly green stick of bamboo that was still standing at an acute angle and got it out of the ground. Its roots were shallow – it was not really suited to clinging to the sides of mountains. In the distant past, bamboo would not have been on Bajacu at all.

She stripped the branches, except those at the top, working quickly to avoid being accused of daydreaming again. Like Emrallie, she wore the filmy material, which she now knew came from parachutes stolen by Rashelope from the Bana air wing of the military. Her hair was chin-length and often full of twigs and leaves. All the Tribals except Rashelope kept their hair off their shoulders for coolness. She had a machete slung across her back, just as Emrallie had carried when they first met. Her most valuable possession was a gift from her friend – a pair of gloves with the fingers cut off.

“Get the breadfruit you can reach first,” she shouted up to Emrallie. “Edge yourself in. Then I’ll pass the bamboo.”

“Guata, you’re bossy,” Emrallie responded, but she went higher. She was the best climber in the band. The breadfruits were small and green and dispersed all over the tree. Emrallie reached a few and was able to pick them by hand, but the rest took many attempts before she knocked them free with the pole. With each strike, the large, serrated leaves of the tree rained down. Its time was ending too.