It was already January. Fewer than ten had found his traps or caught his bullets—barely enough to buy an oar, Ned suspected. Yet already his thoughts were wet and salty, his mind roughened by windburn. Always he thought of the boat: how he’d care for it, where he’d pilot it, what he’d feel in the grip of its planks, against the whip of the wind. Most of all he wondered what his brothers would say when they returned from the war and saw him out there on the water, riding the rips, guiding the rudder with a practised palm, not looking back to acknowledge their presence on the shore until he felt ready.

~

As he neared the house Ned saw his father on the porch, a mug of tea in his hand. Steam lifted from the cup. He was looking out at the trees, but as Ned approached his gaze shifted to his son’s hand. He saw the carcass. Sipped at the steam.

‘You’d be happy with that.’

Ned nodded, held the rabbit out for inspection.

His father took the corpse and stretched it by its rear legs and ears, pulling it taut. He studied the fur, the wounds. Subdued approval showed on his face.

Ned felt pride heat his cheeks. Impressing his father couldn’t compare with impressing Bill, or even Toby—the old man was too strange, too distant in his quiet moods and shifting habits—but the approval was still important.

As the rabbit turned in his father’s hands, Ned thought of what he’d do next: how he would slide a knife into its belly fur and untether the skin from the flesh. He’d drape the pelt over a wire hanger in the empty apple shed—every piece of fruit his father had grown last season had been requisitioned by the army and taken to the new cannery in Beaconsfield—where it would dry, alongside the others he planned on collecting that week. He thought of how he’d harvest these other pelts, his mind roaming across the orchard, remembering paths that resembled the one where he’d set his successful trap. He pictured the bracken that the rabbit he’d missed had run into, thought of ways to position himself closer to the scrub. He imagined himself breathing slowly, squeezing the rifle’s trigger with an ease that approached boredom. He saw more traps springing, more iron fangs. His dreams inched to their inevitable conclusion: the boat. The lap of dark waves against the hull, the hoisting of a stiff sail…

‘It’ll make a fine hat.’

His father’s voice cut through Ned’s visions. The old man was looking down at him, a new crease in his face. His fingers were deep in the rabbit’s fur, combing back and forth.

Ned cooled. ‘I hope so.’