Jack dropped into the wire-grass and waded to the gate. It was tall as he was, latched with a chain and a metal hook, rusted tight but not locked. He had to shoulder it open against the clawing cotton bush, bracing into the bars and pushing with his legs straight. His uncle drove through, and Jack closed it again, fumbling with the chain.

The cypress pines pressed pungent against the windows and shrieked over the top of the ute, hissing and rattling along the tray. Once, Jack and his uncle had to drag a fallen tree clear of their path. Then the way opened into weeds and cotton bush. They were at the end of the track. Jack’s uncle killed the engine.

In front of them, there had once been several small huts. Their timbers were grey and splintered, corrugated roofs corroded and folded in, porches sagging. A shed had collapsed over flakes of orange rust.

“What is it?” asked Jack.

“Sawmill,” said his uncle. “Was.” He gestured to a length of track. An iron trolley propped up one end of the fallen roof.

“What are we going to do?”

His uncle pointed toward the third hut. “You,” he said, “are going in there to fetch out what you find.”

“Why me?” said Jack.

“Because you’re a skinny runt and the floors are rotten,” said his uncle. “There’ll be a box of old glass bottles.” He tossed his pocket knife to Jack. “Make it snappy. I’ll be waiting.”

The steps creaked and cracked. Something rustled hurriedly under them.

“Get on with it!” said my uncle.

“His uncle,” corrected Trish.

He isn’t close family, Jack reminded himself. Probably there were snakes in the hut. Definitely below it. The splintered boards of the narrow porch gaped under his boots; when he grabbed one of the posts, the roof shifted. His uncle laughed—a sharp bark. Jack, straightening, trod carefully where nails bled rust onto the planks, and hoped the beams were solid.

The door hung at an angle from a hinge of riveted leather. The lower one had been gnawed through. Jack eased it open and edged into the hut.

The darkness surprised him. Hot slivers of blue sky were bright through gaps in the roof, and blades of shining dust floated between the boards over the window, but even with the door ajar, the light didn’t get far.

“Well?” called his uncle. “Can you see it?”

“It’s dark!” shouted Jack. The ceiling creaked like footsteps. He lowered his voice and hissed over his shoulder, “I can’t see.” Air brushed his face. Air, or spiders.

He heard his uncle tramping through the grass. Jack, just inside the door, waited for his eyes to adjust. Slumped shadows, cushions hanging heavy with rot. Oddly, he could not smell mice. Only mouldy cloth, dry wood and beneath that a stale draft rising through the floorboards, damply cold on his shins.