‘I don’t want an assistant.’ She gestured at her garden. ‘I have a rabbit problem. Can’t plant a thing without them eating every shoot. Can’t keep them out. I have no traps, and no inclination to get up before sunrise and tramp around blasting a gun at them.’ The vet, still with an arm on the quoll, pointed to the fence at the end of her garden. ‘You come and knock off fifty or so rabbits. That should do for the mare and your friend here.’

Shrewdness calmed Ned’s mind. ‘Can I keep the pelts?’

‘I’m not fussed what you do with them. Buy your boat. Buy a fleet. As long as my garden grows.’

Her smile lingered, before skewing off her mouth as she looked back down at the bandaged creature. She indicated the crate with her chin. Ned grabbed it, shook out the straw and muck. The vet lifted the trembling quoll and put it in the crate. Ned fastened the lid. The vet rested a hand on its surface.

‘Feed him duck eggs, if you can. You’ll know when he’s right to be released. He’ll get lively and start ripping off your fingers.’ She flexed her hands and walked into the garden’s light. Ned lifted the crate and followed her.

‘Thank you.’

She gave him a slight nod. ‘The horse needs rest. Leave her with me. I’ll let you know when you she’s ready to go home.’ She moved to the mare, ran an eye over the line of its neck. ‘Lucky your brothers aren’t around to ride her into the knackery.’

~

It was late morning when Ned made it back to the orchard. The weather was warm but not oppressive. The rows of apple trees ran before him in a healthy grid, their clawing branches heavy with young fruit. He felt light and good. He’d convinced himself that his accidental confession didn’t matter, because the vet, being a near-hermit, surely wouldn’t tell anyone. His boat dreams would remain a secret. And he had a new source of rabbits—garden-fed, lustrous and fat. And the quoll would live, and so would the mare, and he was the one who had done it: he, and only he, had fixed these things.

His arms were sore and the crate heavy as he returned it to the shed. Before he left he peeked beneath the lid. Inside the quoll was asleep. Its breathing seemed normal, and Ned chose to believe that it was not in pain, that it was peacefully regaining its strength after the ordeal of the vet’s attentions. He wondered how he would get his hands on duck eggs, then left the shed and went down to the house.