Once the quoll had toured the room and was beginning to scratch furrows in the windowsill, Ned took a duck egg and some dried rabbit from his pocket. Clicked his fingers. The quoll turned, raised its nose. He showed it the egg. It came towards him, and when he put the egg and meat into the crate it climbed in. He slapped the lid back on. Huffed with relief.

Callie was rigid, bewitched. After a moment she said: ‘It looks better.’

They heard its teeth crunch. The quoll still filled the room, even though it was no longer in sight.

Ned laid a hand on the lid. ‘Once the limp’s gone, so is it.’

Callie looked at the crate. Then at him: straight at him.

~

The river didn’t live to be paddled on, and his boat wasn’t built to be manhandled. He discovered this on his second voyage, dragging the oars through heavy water, going slow, going not far until a current took over and he had to fight it, to heave the boat back to near the shore before he lost total control. It wasn’t optimal; it wasn’t what he’d dreamed of. Maggie was right. He needed a sail.

He took his bike into Beaconsfield, a bag filled with the last of his rabbit pelts strapped to his back. Went straight to Singline’s. Expected the usual price, the usual speed of transaction. But from the moment he entered, Singline looked at him differently. A narrowness to his eyes, coyness on his busted old face. He drew out the talk, the bartering, the game of it. Ned grew exasperated. Singline fiddled with the pelts, rubbing at the fur with an expression of false thoughtfulness. Finally, in a careless, almost distracted voice, he said: ‘I heard you’ve bought a boat.’

Coldness on Ned’s neck. ‘That’s right.’

Singline smiled at him. ‘I wondered what you were going to do with all that money I’ve been giving you.’

‘Giving?’

‘Trading. Now don’t get uppity.’ Singline kept smiling, amused by something unseen and unsaid. ‘You worked hard. Those rabbits didn’t trap themselves.’

He seemed to be waiting for Ned to respond. When he didn’t, Singline kept talking. ‘Quite a nice boat, I’m told. Huon pine. You don’t see many of those these days. Who would’ve thought old Falmouth would be hiding a thing like that.’

Ned kept still. Kept himself from reacting. He wanted to demand who’d told him, but knew Singline wouldn’t give a straight answer. He pointed at the pile of fur. ‘There’s nothing wrong with these.’