DAYS OF DRYNESS followed Ned’s capture of the quoll. The wind warmed, then died. The sun bit and clawed. Mud hardened into dirt, before falling apart as dust. Sweat crusted onto skin as soon as it leaked free. New, thirsty growth hung low on the apple trees; Ned’s father dug furrows in the orchard, hoping any spare moisture would run down onto the roots. All over the valley the grass shook off its spring-grown greenness and collapsed into yellow slumber. With no freshness to feed on, the rabbits disappeared.

The only joy to be found was in the arms of the river. Each afternoon, after their fathers dismissed them, Ned and Jackbird would make for a pebbly beach not far from Limberlost’s northern boundary. They’d take their rods in case they encountered anyone they needed to impress—fishing being a nobler pursuit than swimming—but never come close to baiting a hook. At the beach they’d kick off their boots, peel off their shirts and wince over the burning stones into the water, dousing their work-hot skin in the waves.

They’d stroke out over the shallows, towards the distant eastern shore. When they reached a depth the height of their necks they’d use their skulls to crack open the surface, and once fully submerged they would upend their bodies, kicking downwards, thrusting themselves to the one place it was truly cold: the riverbed. Only then would they stop moving. Only in the low, cooling current would they allow themselves to relax. Only there, beneath the river’s shining ceiling, would Ned let himself remember the creature in his father’s shed.

~

He hadn’t told anyone about the quoll. He behaved as if his summer was unchanged, as if the capture hadn’t taken place. He swam with Jackbird. He helped his father shepherd the apples towards autumn. When Maggie puzzled over the unmolested chicken coop, he looked at the trees. Each morning he took up his rifle and checked his traps, although the scarcity of rabbits meant he had little success. The few he killed were the smallest he’d seen all season, and their pelts were dull. He cut the skins free anyway, hanging them in the shed as he normally would. Afterwards—once he’d checked that Maggie and his father were not watching—he carved flecks of stringy meat off the naked corpses and gave them, piece by piece, to the quoll.