The ferry arrived two minutes late. No one got off—people hardly ever did during the week, except when school was out. A deckhand rolled my boxes down the gangway in his trolley. We exchanged a smile. Waves clopped against the keel and passengers took pictures with their phones. After the gangway was pulled back on board, a horn honked three times and the ferry slowly departed, churning up white water. I waved goodbye because I was indebted to the ferry service—without it I wouldn’t have had a job.

I had to make several trips back to the kitchen with the boxes, and I was loading my last crate onto the wheelbarrow when I heard a strange noise. It was a dog barking. For a split second I thought it must be one of the boys acting up, but then I realised the noise was coming from the wrong direction.

Dogs weren’t allowed on Finch Island. It was a national park. Blow-ins, I thought. If they hadn’t used the jetty, there was only one other place they could have moored their boat: Karboora Beach. But I didn’t head straight there, because I had to dump my load. I moved quickly, passing Warren and Rhys and Joe as they drilled their platoon on the parade ground. Over by the dormitory Shaun was shouting orders at Jake. ‘Eyes front! Right turn! Quick march!’ I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

As soon as I’d shoved all the cream in the fridge, I headed back down the jetty road, to the point where it crossed another track near the shoreline. This track skimmed the edge of the mangroves, leading straight from the jetty to the beach. It was a route that circled the whole island, though here and there it had grown almost impassable. As I hurried along it, I realised I could smell smoke.

Sure enough, when I finally emerged onto the sand I spotted a fire-pit full of burning wood—as well as a very nice fibreglass cabin cruiser, a leggy blonde woman in a batik wrap, three tanned men and a slobbering boxer. The dog was sopping wet.

‘Guys! We’re not alone!’ One of the men had caught sight of me. He was stocky and unshaven and almost bald.

Everyone else looked around. The boxer began to yap.

‘Welcome to Buangan Pa.’ I pointed at a sign near the edge of the beach. ‘It’s a national park, so you may want to read the conditions of use.’

‘Are you a ranger?’ the woman asked, removing her enormous sunglasses.

‘I’m a field officer. You’ll have to put that dog back on the boat.’

‘What?’ The woman stared at me in disbelief. Baldy frowned. The only one who looked shifty was a shorter man with a beer gut and a flashy gold watch.

Unlike his friends, he’d probably read the sign.

‘Are you kidding?’ said Baldy.