He nearly died, she shouts above the noise of the falls. And now he’s got so much ahead of him. He’ll be struggling for the rest of his life.

Yes. But never underestimate the capacity of the individual not just to adapt to change, but to flourish. It’s one of the truly wondrous tendencies of the living world.

She’s quiet as they walk back to gather up the picnic things, hands deep in the pockets of her coat.

A small self-conscious laugh from Gideon. Hey, I’m sorry, that sounded a bit trite, but I was speaking as a scientist, not trying to trot out some new-age spiel.

So tell me, as a scientist, what do you make of my grandmother wanting to atone for the old man’s sin?

Oh god, Laura, I can’t explain the impulse to save another person’s life, regardless of risk, any better than Darwin could, or Allee, either. But your grandmother … His voice softens. I reckon she was a strong, intelligent, compassionate human being and it doesn’t surprise me the least bit that she responded intuitively to a child in danger. If you want to talk lineage, I can list a few things you’ve inherited from her. And passed on to Cooper.

She shuffles her feet, looks down. Offers him a peppermint.

But I reckon you’d just be embarrassed.

~

There’s something I want to show you on the way home.

He presses ‘play’ on the CD and she closes her eyes. David Bowie. ‘Life on Mars.’ Always surprising, Gideon.

They pull up in the driveway of an old weatherboard house.

Where are we?

Lucy’s house.

She raises a brow.

A friend. She’s at work. I asked her to let me know if they came this year … Well, come on, it’s easier just to show you.

He gets out and she reluctantly follows, murmuring in protest when he unclips the latch on the side gate.

It’s OK, he says, grabbing her by the wrist. Lucy knows we’re here.

Then why are you whispering?

They are now round the back of the house. An old-fashioned garden of fruit trees and flowers and little paths of broken bricks. He puts a finger to his lips and leads her towards a tree densely leaved in orange and brown. Odd. An autumn tree. In early spring?

He stops, whispers again. So they don’t fly away.

A hush of recognition that the leaves are not leaves. They are quivering, minutely fluttering, alive.

Oh, Gideon …

Thousands, there must be thousands of Monarchs clustering on the spreading branches of the loquat tree.

I don’t believe it!

I know. Incredible, isn’t it?

She is drawn forward, stepping cautiously. Bunches of butterflies are hanging like tiny bats, the colour of fire. I’ve seen photographs of those forests in Mexico where they fly every year to overwinter, but never here.