Later that day he tried to clean out the quoll’s crate. He’d done this a few times before, and it had never gone well. It involved slowly lifting the crate, sliding off the lid, then tipping the contents, quoll included, into another crate that he hastily lidded and weighted. He’d clean out the dirty crate and fill it with fresh straw before decanting his struggling, shrieking prisoner back into it. The procedure always made a lot of mess, and the shed would be filled with sounds of unholy rage. Always he was sure Maggie or his father would hear.

This time he found the quoll asleep. Deciding to try his luck, he pulled on a pair of thick gloves and slid his fingers beneath its softly heaving torso. It didn’t react, not even when he gently raised it into the air and draped it into the spare box. He cleaned the crate as quickly as he could and turned back to find the quoll still sleeping. He lifted it again, gingerly, glacially. It was only when he lowered it onto the clean straw that it woke. A set of heavy blinks tricked Ned into thinking that sleep had rendered it woozy and slow; an instant later it had twisted in his grip, squirming to clamp its jaws onto his glove. Hot teeth daggered through the stiff fabric, lancing into the meat of his palm. He swore and dropped the quoll into the crate. It fell, screaming and barking from the moment its mouth detached from Ned’s flesh. He barely managed to replace the lid before it clawed its way out. The sounds of its fury echoed through the shed.

Ned ripped the glove from his hand. Blood ran from two shallow punctures near the base of his thumb. He wiped the wounds on his leg. The crate rattled. He thought about kicking it. Turned to leave. Saw someone in the entrance. Felt panic rip through him, and just managed to hold in a cry.

It was Jackbird’s sister, Callie. Her body was framed by the light that came through the doorway, her hair thick with the sun’s glint. She was staring past him, into the depths of the shed. Ned thought she looked different, an incorrect version of herself. He hadn’t spoken to her since before the last school year had started. Five months. Maybe longer.

After a dry stutter, he found his voice. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘A lot less than you, it seems.’

‘I’m just tidying some things up.’

A throaty hiss rumbled from behind Ned’s legs. He shifted in front of the crate.

Callie looked past him. ‘Your sister invited me to go riding.’

Ned pointed out the door. ‘Stables are that way.’

‘Already been there. Your mare is limping.’

For a second, Ned forgot the quoll. Imagined Maggie discovering a horse’s wound. ‘Shit.’