Now she knelt down herself and put her hands into the dry dirt. Then she took them out again, unsatisfied, and licked her fingers. The ulcer in her mouth stung but she enjoyed the pain, the bitter taste. She closed her eyes. Then she opened them. She was suddenly very thirsty. Further off, a meandering line of gum trees followed the creek. She remembered swimming there once, and saw an image of herself stooping to drink the clear water, like some sort of Pre-Raphaelite figure. That’s what she would do. She stood up and began walking again. She was not cold anymore. There was the smell of eucalyptus. She was thinking about her grandmother Cath, and about the way Ruth had held her hand, and about the hand of the terminator as he’d disappeared into the molten steel. Thumbs up.

Something was lying in the dry grass at the edge of the trees. A dead bird, maybe. She walked towards it. The body of a large bird with its chest opened up, a chunk of the chest missing, the dull red cavity exposed. Putrefying and teeming with ants. There were wild cats out here, and what else? But it wasn’t a bird, she realised when she got close enough to see. It was a blue baseball cap. Red on the inside. Lost. With the logo of a beer company on the front.

She recognised it.

It was Ruth’s hat.

Maybe.

She knelt down and touched it. The fear of animals was replaced by something worse. But there were probably thousands of identical hats. It was the type of hat that was given out for free at public events. Maybe everyone in the camp had one. She reached for her watch. But she’d left it in the cabin.

And then she saw the first man. He was naked.

Sylvie froze.

He was walking slowly through the trees up ahead, as if looking for something on the ground, his giant, furry belly tight as a drum.

Then behind him, also naked, a woman appeared.

It was Ruth. She wiped her mouth on her arm. Her eyes were wide. Her moon-coloured flesh was like waxy paper. She paid no attention to the man. Her face was wet. She was beautiful. She stepped very carefully through the trees. Not an owl so much as a deer, Sylvie thought. A strange deer-woman. She did not seem to notice Sylvie. Her gaze was fixed on something else.

Slowly, more people emerged from the shadows.

And then Sylvie realised.

Of course.

The synthetic peyote.

Nine, ten, eleven of them.

They were not all naked, but some were. They were like a herd of nocturnal animals who had lost all sense of direction, who had strayed too close to civilisation. They were going to die soon, Sylvie thought. They were preparing themselves.