The old man poked the handle into the crate, dangling it as a lure. When the quoll slammed its teeth onto the wood he shot down his free hand and gripped the back of its neck. He raised the quoll to his eye height. It was huge in his grip, bigger than Ned remembered, bigger than a wild cat. Longer than a devil, and nearly equal in weight. It must have grown muscle on its duck-egg diet. It twisted and writhed, turning over and in on itself, its long tail flailing about, but it could not break free or reach its captor’s wrist with its snapping teeth. It began to scream. High, coarse barks slammed off the shed’s walls. The axe handle hung low.

Ned’s guts were plunging, his mouth drying. He wanted to tell his father to look out for its wound, to not disturb the bandage. But his father wasn’t there to help the quoll heal. It would only take a single blow. Or maybe, Ned realised, no blow at all. A memory rushed into his mind: Toby talking to him about Bill: Little twists, a pop, a rip, and the pelt’s off. No blade in his hand. And his father, talking to him only the other week: Who do you think taught him?

His father need only flex his hands to remember his old strength. The quoll screamed with the hoarse outrage of a predator undone. Ned hoped it would be quick. That its world would end with the bluntness of speed.

‘How’d you catch it?’

It was Maggie. Ned turned and saw her standing in the entryway. His father looked up as well, then indicated his son with an inclined chin. Kept the quoll high.

Ned tried to steady himself. ‘Rabbit trap.’ Heard the wobble in his voice. ‘Near your chicken coop.’

Maggie came forward. ‘After I found those marks?’

‘Yep.’

She kept coming, past Ned, right up to their father. Buried her face in the quoll’s presence. It yowled with fresh fury. Flung claws at her. She leaned back, taking it in. ‘Funny type of hawk.’

Ned would have smiled if the muscles in his face weren’t so tight. He just wanted his father to do it. To swing the handle, to slam this day shut.

Instead, the old man lifted the quoll higher. Peered at it with a butcher’s eye. ‘You bunged him up pretty good.’ And then he was lowering it, with care, with gentleness, into the crate. The quoll struggled, still trying to rip him apart, but he got it down without catching a wound. On the lid went. Air burst from Ned’s lungs.

His father straightened. ‘You can’t keep it.’

Ned’s voice came out half-throttled. ‘I wasn’t going to.’

‘As soon as it can walk, it’s gone.’ He tossed the axe handle into the shadows. ‘I’ll say that once.’

‘Yes, sir.’