The gun goes off; the girls at the front leap forward. Their feet pound the mushy oval, throwing up chunks of mud that hit the runners behind them.

The course circles the oval, then climbs between the tennis courts. At the end of the first hill the runners have stretched out to a thin thread. I think about walking, but by the time I cross the main driveway it feels good to stretch my legs, even though it’s not as much fun without Arnold by my side.

At the bottom of the hill we cut through a large pine plantation, an abandoned part of Balmoral that looks at least fifty years older than the rest. I pass a disused portable classroom and head into the thickest section of trees.

The fallen pine needles are soft to run on, swallowing up every footfall. I’ve left the last group of runners out of sight and the next girl is way ahead. The only sign that I’m not in the middle of a Grimm’s fairytale are the yellow course flags tied around the trees.

My head flashes with images. Young girls running through the forest, red-cloaked with wicker baskets. Gold rings. Spinning wheels. Tower prisons. Maidens asleep under trees. Girls with black hair and snow-white skin, lying on the pine needles with a school blazer for a blanket. Eyes shut, but not sleeping. Taken. Not a fairytale at all.

I trip on a half-buried tree root and lose my rhythm. I pick up my pace, striving to get out of the shadowy copse.

I bolt full speed into the long, torturous climb back to the oval, where everyone has to do a final lap before collapsing across the finish line. I’m not too tired so I push my legs a little bit harder, passing the trickle of struggling runners one by one.

By the top of the hill I’m regretting everything.

Ms Hammond, one of the PE teachers, stands at the side of the oval, directing the runners onto the track. When I draw close she frowns and consults her clipboard. If I had any puff left I’d laugh at the confused look on her face. With only a few hundred metres to go I decide to stick it to the PE teachers and the man and hungry wolves in forests, and I put in a final burst of speed. I pass one staggering girl, then another.

At the top of the straight, the purple house captains jump up and down as I take two more runners. My legs are rapidly turning to jelly, but I manage to keep my dignity to the finish line. I swerve to avoid Sarah, who is doubled over ahead of me.

Mrs Wang hands me a piece of cardboard with the number 4 on it and claps my gross sweaty back. Your choice, lady. I’m going to die.