Keeping his eyes on the rocks and the ditches, Marty pushed away visions of wild dogs and focused on the men walking next to him. He’d forgotten that some of these guys were from the Rural Fire Service. They’d been heroes in the big Canberra bushfire—five hundred homes lost and four tragic deaths. One of the radiographers had told him how the electricity had gone down in the hospital, and they’d had to use back-up generators while trying to manage a mass emergency. People suffering burns and smoke inhalation. Firefighters dragging themselves in after hours in the field, black and grimy and coughing, but determined to get back out there. Heroes determined to battle on.

No heroics from Marty in front of the TV cameras this morning. He and Lexie had planned what to say, then, when the moment arrived, the horror of last time had come flooding back. I should have been able to speak, for Christ’s sake; I work in high-pressure situations every day.

When the SES men stopped to rest for a moment, Marty pulled out his phone. Fifteen voice messages. His despair made him want to delete them all without listening, but after years of working at a hospital he couldn’t do it. He pressed the buttons and brought the mobile slowly to his ear.

Three messages from colleagues sending their support. An update from a nurse on his patients who’d had surgery. Messages from friends in Sydney, his cousins in Newcastle and his aunt in Armidale. The next one was from Phyllis, an old family friend. He’d visited her in the nursing home when he had been back to Armidale but had lost touch with her son, Terry.

Marty, dear, it’s Phyllis. Your aunt rang me and the nursing staff showed me the television news. I’m heartbroken to hear about your little girl. Just heartbroken, dear. I think you must be cursed. Your mother will be watching from heaven. I still hear her words sometimes. Remember when you and Terry built that cubbyhouse in the creek? You should go back there and make another one.

The message ended abruptly. Cursed. The woman must be slipping into dementia. The last time he’d seen her, she had been dealing out games of bridge in the nursing home. Cursed. Marty rubbed at the pain in his chest. That cubbyhouse she remembered was one of their better ones. He wanted to build a cubbyhouse with Bella.

Up here on the ridge, Marty could see miles and miles of gum trees, gullies and rocky outcrops; impenetrable countryside leading across to the Brindabella Ranges. Above, blue sky dotted with wisps of clouds. A postcard image. If his child wasn’t missing, possibly out there.

He pressed the button on his phone to hear the next message.