‘I love all the communities, but I feel connected to the Anangu people for some reason. The artwork, the bush medicine, the desert, the sky at night. Very good friends like Denise, who works at the cultural centre.’ She gestured with one arm to the desert they skimmed along the edge of. ‘This is Albert Namatjira’s country.’ This time she glanced at him and her cheeks were dusted with pink. ‘Sorry. I get passionate about the centre.’

He wished he could feel so enthused about something, but that too would pass, he was sure. It had to, because everything changes eventually. Early on in their marriage, Roslyn used to say she loved his enthusiasm. But that changed. He pulled his thoughts away from that dark hole. ‘There’s nothing wrong with passion. It’s clear in your voice.’ It had been years since he’d had that kind of passion and it was nice to know it still existed. He felt himself being more drawn towards her, and thought, To hell with it, I’m not going to fight it any longer.

Feeling a sort of release, he relaxed even more into his seat. ‘Tell me more about the Anangu people – more about them that you admire.’

She wrinkled her brow. ‘Aren’t you sick of listening to me?’

‘No.’ He wondered if he ever could be, and the thought brought a puzzling mix of fear and hope and guilt: standalone emotions he didn’t need to feel all at once. But that was what he suspected summed up Ava May. Feeling. All or nothing. He’d lost faith that he had the kind of fearlessness she seemed to have.

She shrugged and went on, her eyes scanning ahead, their speed along the strip of tar steady and eating up the distance towards their destination. ‘The Anangu have been the custodians of this desert around Uluru and down south for a very long time. I guess it’s their resilience and ability to change that I admire so much. They believe the responsibility for keeping the land safe lies with them. I do too.’

She slowed to steer carefully around a lump on the hot tar in front of them. When he glanced back, he saw it was an echidna, uncurling to keep crossing the road. She grinned at him. ‘They call him the Tjilkamata in Pitjantjatjara.’

‘Tjilkamata.’ He stumbled a little over the pronunciation, unlike her. ‘Great word,’ he said. ‘Though I like that in the English language baby echidnas are called puggles.’

She laughed. ‘I did not know that.’

‘So tell me more about the Anangu.’

‘Well, as custodians, they guide and welcome those who visit the national park, wishing them safety and helping them with Indigenous teachings to appreciate the sacredness of their world. Uluru and its surrounds are a lot like non-Indigenous people expect a cathedral or mosque to be – sacred.’

‘That’s reasonable.’ But not always true, he thought.