‘Getting there.’ Ned said it flatly, but it was a deflection. He’d fed the quoll an hour earlier. When he’d opened the lid of the crate it had flown up to his hand in a liquid flash, snatching the egg from his grasp before he could react. Before he could stop its claws flaring open the plush skin on the inside of his wrist. It took the egg into the crate and devoured it in seconds, cracking and slurping.

Afterwards it had rolled onto its back, yawned open the armoury of its jaw and stretched out its limbs, showing Ned the ease of its strength. Showing him the place on its rear leg where it had torn off the bandage. Showing him a neat pink scar, edged by snowy fur.

~

A still dawn. Perhaps not enough wind to get it done, even though it had to be done. Ned lay in bed, hearing stillness out his window, imagining not doing it. Imagining arguments and strategies to avoid it. It was reasonable, he thought; he could make it work. But the longer he lay there, the clearer that version of himself became in his mind. A wheedling, avoiding, rationalising Ned. Changing rules, fleeing problems. The sort of person his father had no time for. He thought long and hard about that. Then he was up, dressed and out the door.

At the waterline he met Callie, her arm still strapped. In her free hand she held the note he’d slid through her window the night before.

‘What’s all this about?’

In the note he’d asked her to meet him. Hadn’t given a reason why. Now he hefted the crate under his arm. ‘No putting this off. Thought you might want to be there.’

Callie took in the crate. Lost the tension in her expression. ‘Where?’

Ned pointed to the eastern bank. ‘Over there.’

She followed his arm, then looked at her own injured one. At the crate. ‘Are you as stupid as my brother?’

‘It’s possible.’

He put the crate in the centre of the dinghy and laid a heavy blanket on top of it. Then he pushed the boat over the runners into the shallows. He offered to help Callie climb in but she did it without him, awkwardly. Ned pushed off and jumped in over the transom.

There was not enough wind to make it worth sailing, so he rowed them down the shoreline, heading south. Once they reached Telle’s place he turned into the river. The quoll needed dense, high trees in which to hunt birds. It needed valleys and heights where farmers didn’t set traps or aim rifles. It needed a forest, and the only one he knew where it might be safe was the eastern partner of the one behind Telle’s garden.