Liz suggested they call Will’s doctors, as her mum had told her to; they could explain directly to Zara what was happening. So Zara made the calls, holding Liz’s hand for support. They both listened on open speaker, Liz asking more questions than Zara, who couldn’t seem to find her voice. Her friend took in more than Zara could, wrote notes and then, together, they went over what they’d learned and why the prognosis for Will was so bleak.

The last MRI scan had shown that the cancer had grown through the bowel wall and attached itself to the liver. There were also spots in his lungs. The doctors had offered him another round of stronger chemo, but they weren’t hopeful it would slow down the disease’s progress. Will had made the hard decision to opt for quality of life rather than quantity. He wanted to die at home. On the farm. On Rowberry Glen. The logistics of that were mind-blowing.

Zara hung up the phone and stared at Liz. ‘How could he give up?’

‘You can’t ask that,’ Liz had said. ‘It’s his choice. You can never ask that.’

During the drive to Barker this morning, she’d still wanted to rage at Will.

‘We’re the Ellisons. We don’t give up! We’ve heard the stories of our great granddad. He never gave up. He could’ve lost the farm during the Depression, but he kept working away, trapping rabbits, shearing, working wherever he could get a job—sometimes far away from home. But he kept doing that because he wanted to keep Rowberry Glen. Granddad did the same. Even though he was in bad shape when he came back from the Vietnam War, he still fronted up to start farming again. And Dad? Well, he never gave up either! When interest rates were sky high, with a big debt, he tightened his belt and knuckled down. Methodically working his way through the lean times. He came out the other side. There were plenty of times all of those men could’ve given up, but they didn’t. So why are you?’

Liz was right, though. That was a question she could never ask. It was Will’s decision, but she wished he’d talked to her about it. She could’ve told him how much she needed to him to fight. Needed him to live. And that was when she realised he wasn’t going to, no matter how hard they prayed or wished or hoped. It had gone past that.

It had taken her the whole two weeks to get organised. To negotiate a new contract with Lachy, so she could work from Barker, without having to attend editorial meetings every week. To clean out her desk and her apartment, redirect her mail. She owned her apartment, so it could sit empty until she came back to Adelaide—after all, it wasn’t going to be long, according to the doctors. And she’d need to stay there when she did have to go back to the city for meetings.