We walk home in silence, lost in our own worlds. We’re just about to turn into our street when I feel a sense of recklessness come over me.

‘Let’s go for an adventure,’ I tell Estelle.

She doesn’t look too enthused, but I force her along anyway.

‘Come on, run!’ I say, and start to sprint towards the road that heads out into farmland.

Estelle shrugs, but she runs with me.

It feels good to stretch my legs. I take huge strides, flying through the air in the quiet of the morning. We run and run and run, until we’re surrounded by grass and trees, with the hospital and the memory of the night fading in the light of the morning.

When we finally stop, we both bend over, our chests heaving. My face is covered in sweat. Estelle’s cheeks are flushed a bright pink, and she is gasping for breath.

‘I need to lie down,’ she says, panting.

I crawl under the fence running beside the road, and she follows me. We’re surrounded by rows of orange trees laden with fruit. Some of the oranges are small and hard, but others are big and ripe, ready to be picked.

We throw ourselves down among the trees.

‘I don’t know why life feels so hard all the time,’ Estelle says, shielding her face from the sun with her hand as she stares up into the oranges, ‘when really it’s pretty simple.’

I know what she means. I close my eyes, and let the gentle breeze soothe my frazzled mind.

I hear Estelle’s breathing become regular sighs. Totally exhausted from the night, she has fallen asleep.

I don’t wake her up.

I relax into the soft grass, for some reason remembering the odd conversation I’d had with the Smiling Assassin just before I left for Wingabby. She’d recited a passage from one of my favourite books.

Lines from Through the Looking-Glass float across the blue sky above me now, threading around the fluffy white clouds.

In a Wonderland they lie,

Dreaming as the days go by,

Dreaming as the summers die.

Ever drifting down the stream—

Lingering in the golden gleam—

Life, what is it but a dream?

It feels like we have stepped into Wonderland. This comforts me. Even in pain, I think, I can still find beauty.

In the orchard of orange trees, my nightmares are no more.

TWENTY-FOUR

twenty-four

After that night, all we can think about is getting back to Sydney. Max crosses off the days on a calendar. ‘Thirty-four to go,’ he says grimly one afternoon, ‘which means five more remedial drivers’ lessons.’ It’s also crawling towards winter, which is a relief. The ward, despite still being hellish, is at least a more tolerable temperature.