Away from land a breeze became discernible. He got the sail up, tacked into the wind and found a way to zag east. It was slow going, but they were not in a rush, not now that they had got away without being questioned or followed. Callie sat near the crate. Ned focused on the tiller, the boom, the sail. Let the physicality of the task chase away his hesitations.

When the sun’s full shape was in the sky they coasted into the shallows. Heat was already building. They jumped out, and Ned began pulling the boat onto a pebbly beach, taking care not to run the wood over any large or sharp rocks. When it was above the tideline he retrieved the crate. Behind them was a wall of pale paperbarks, scrubby ferns threading around the trunks. Callie walked into them. Ned followed, holding the crate close to his chest.

The paperbarks shared the land with she-oaks, whose fallen needles smothered other vegetation and formed dry glades. There was no path to follow, so they moved from glade to glade. After half an hour Callie turned to him.

‘Here?’

Ned shook his head. ‘Need bigger trees.’ He pointed through the she-oaks to the little mountain in the distance. It was covered by greener textures, taller trunks. She adjusted her sling. They kept going.

The walking got easier when they found a stream. They could drink from it, and because the vegetation was scrubbier on its banks they could walk beside it, following its path into the heights. Clear water rolled over brown-black stones. The trees were now mostly eucalypts, blue gums and white gums and stringybarks and, most notably to Ned, black gums: prime quoll habitat. He’d read that in an old field guide that had belonged to his mother. But he still felt uneasy; if he turned around he could see the river behind him, the boats it held, the people on their decks. Farmland still felt close too, even though he couldn’t see any paddocks. There was an emptiness to the horizon, a feeling of cultivation.

It wasn’t until they’d ascended a damp slope, where the black gums began mingling with myrtles, that he felt surer. Here the trees were taller, wetter. Moss crawled over the trunks and raised roots of the myrtles. He stopped. Put the crate on the ground.

Callie was at his shoulder. ‘Here?’

‘I suppose so.’ He looked up at the canopy. High branches, thick foliage, small gaps of green-stained light. He avoided the rumbling growls he could hear at his feet and the sudden rattling of the crate, as if the quoll had read his intentions from inside the box.

‘Do you want to do it?’