If it’s mechanically possible—by which I mean, providing there’s no damage we’re unaware of—then yes. When he’s ready.

When he’s ready. Avril turns to Dr Nguyen, who’s smiling briskly and almost out the door. Will there be restrictions on visitors once he can speak?

Only the usual. She frowns, quizzical, taking a step back towards Avril. What’s concerning you?

Um, nothing. Just …

You need to alert the nurses if there’s anything they should know, Avril, anything that will affect Cooper’s recovery? Her voice rises. A question.

Avril looks back at Cooper.

30

Laura

Laura eases herself into what she’d always thought of as Gideon’s old bomb of a car, without really noticing it. She’s only recently learned it’s a 1970s Monaro GTS. A prize. Red, of course. Weren’t all Monaros red back then, acid red? Picardy Red, Gideon corrects.

Where’re we going?

He’s fiddling with the radio. Doesn’t answer. She glances behind her and sees a wicker basket on the back seat, a linen cloth across the top of it. Something smells delicious. Warm pastry and cinnamon. Comfort food.

OK, so we’re taking a picnic. Where?

He smiles across at her. Not far. If Avril calls, you’ll be no further from the hospital than if you were at home.

He takes a turn, away from the highway, and Laura settles back in the seat. The sun, the motion of the car, the smell of cinnamon—soporific at another time. But Laura’s fidgety, unable to relax.

Another turn, a slip road.

What’s bothering you, Dr Ellery?

She blinks. Uncanny. She glances quickly at him and then at the narrowing road ahead.

Genetics.

Hmmm? He’s frowning, quizzical.

Gideon, is there … is it possible there’s a gene for heroism?

~

It’s Laura’s kind of picnic. Olive bread, cheese, ripe pears, an apple tart. A half-bottle of Pinot Gris. Glass each, he says.

She looks out over the falls, noisy with last month’s rain, while Gideon reads the pages from Meggie’s kist. Finally, he puts the sheaf on the blanket, face down.

It’s a horrifying story, what the old man did, but your grandmother’s message to you—it’s beautiful, Laura.

She scratches at the grass with a twig, not trusting herself to speak at first. And then she looks up. I’m not even sure there IS a message, or if it’s just the unburdening of some shameful secret. A stab at absolving family sin, perhaps.

He shakes his head. There’s a stab at forgiveness there, Laura. Forgiveness is always beautiful, don’t you think? And, undoubtedly, there’s love.

Laura looks away. But you see what I mean?

That it’s some family legacy thing? From a biological perspective, no. Although there’s an anti-Darwinist defiance in the idea that I rather like.

What d’you mean?