I’m not allowed to tell you where we are stationed in case this letter is intercepted. But it is hot and dull and the ocean is all around. The food would not be considered legal back home. Sometimes the air-raid sirens go off, but so far they’ve all been false alarms. There have been no attacks in months. I thought this would be many things but I did not imagine it would be so boring. I have met some terrific fellows, though.

They say it will all be finished soon. It seems unlikely that you’ll be called up. Typical of your luck. It also seems unlikely I will see any action at all. Be sure to tell everyone that I’m a war hero regardless.

Has Bill written? The last I heard, his division had been routed from Singapore, although that was a long time ago. Good thing he can shoot nearly as well as I can. It’s not as if he’ll be charming the enemy into surrendering.

Be good to Dad and if Maggie is there do what she tells you. I know I never did but I suppose I should have. Toby

8

8

COULD IT HAVE been Toby who gave him the coat that night at the river mouth? Even though he was on the other side of the boat? The thought bit into Ned’s mind at the base of a raging waterfall, years after reading his brother’s letter.

Ned had returned from the mainland six months earlier, after two years working on the great cattle and sheep stations of the interior. Soon after arriving home he drove to the birthday party of a second cousin, on a farm three valleys over from Limberlost. This valley’s river was narrow, full of twists, highland-fed. Dark freshwater, prone to swelling after winter rains that were predictable enough to allow for dairy farming, the huge and defining industry of the place. No orchards in sight. No trees other than lonesome gums kept alive for stock shelter. Dairy farms patterned every stitch of flat land, right up to the steep tiers that bordered the workable soil. Black-white cows speckled every paddock.

Ned expected drinks, speeches—a sense of familiarity, of reunion. Other attendees had different ideas. It was autumn, and the ground was not yet drenched, and among the young men at the party there was a contagious desire to burn things. A bonfire was called for, then multiple bonfires—a competition was suggested, where two groups would fight to see who could build a blaze with the highest flames. But ultimately a different scheme was chosen. Along with fire-lust, people were hungry. And Ned’s second cousin had just spent two years on the dairies of Waikato in New Zealand, where he had picked up the art of cooking meat by burying it underground. This was what they would do, he was shouting. Waving a shovel with one hand, spilling beer with the other.