More steps but this time in the opposite direction; the remaining man curses a blue streak. I squeeze my eyes shut. He starts running and it takes a few moments for me to realise his footsteps are moving away. Releasing a shaky, silent breath I try not to gasp in much needed air. Relief and guilt course through me. I was safe for now, but at whose expense?

Pushing it from my head, I open my eyes and wait for the sounds and torchlights to fade. The screaming dogs grow fainter. The sounds of my two pursuers soften. When I can hear only the crickets, see only the moon, I pry my hands from the tree. My crouching dash to the next one takes too long. I stop. No one calls out. Nothing gets shot. I force myself to do it again. And then again.

Adrenalin takes over and I’m sprinting. I try not to think about who they’re chasing instead. Shutting it all out, it’s like I’m on the track again, only this time the car is the finish line. The moon is the lights of the stadium. Just have to make it to the car and I’ll get something better than gold – I’ll be safe.

A glint of light on metal through trees signals the final stretch. Breaking out of the tree line onto the dirt track we’d found weeks ago when we’d last been here, I’m round the car, testing all the doors faster than I can think to do it. All locked.

Shit!

I press my head to the cold metal and watch my breath fog the window. I feel the trees press in on all sides and the eerie silence of the night finally registers. Not even a cricket is calling. Something worse than fear crawls along my skin. The bush is never silent, not like this.

Head lifting, I put the car at my back. Movement to my right as a speckled silvery body hurtles towards me. I’m flat on the ground without thinking. A whoosh of air overhead and I’m rolling under the car. There’s blood in my mouth from biting my tongue. Terror rips through my gut and tries to crawl out of my throat.

A ghost bird. A fucking ghost bird swooping me.

I lie there trying to see out all sides of the car while keeping my movements silent. Tace says that all the old stories are just superstition. Tawny frog mouths aren’t messengers. If she was here though I bet she’d be under the car with me. Some things are just ingrained.

A scrape on leaves to my left. Whipping my head towards it, my whole body jumps as though stung.

Like turning off the mute button on the TV, the crickets start calling, sound returns to the world and I can hear it all now.

‘Psst.’