Flo looks to the south, to the open ocean, an undulant silver-grey sheet which stretches to the horizon; looks west to Bruny Island, an elongated mirror of the peninsula, a sister jut of land that’s managed to break free of the mainland. She looks north-west, to Storm Bay and further to the tableau of Mount Wellington, the signal tower sticking up from it like a candle, a rocket, a periscope. She feels exposed. There’s no cover; their silhouettes will be visible to boats miles away, black against the silver and rose sky. Especially Harry. He’s so tall. Like a bloody signal tower himself.

‘So what now?’ Lucy asks, her cheeks flushed, eyes eager. Harry, too, is looking to Flo for leadership and Flo finds it bracing.

This is more like it, she thinks to herself.

‘Well, now we scruff ’em.’ She waves her hand towards the rookery just further on, and starts marching towards it, getting a start on the kids.

The sandy mouths of burrows, shadowy black, dotted here and there, give off the impression of a labyrinthine world below. And that smell: immediate, oceanic, animal; a meld of brine, seaweed and agriculture. It hangs heavy in the air. Damp, warm, breathing. Flo inhales deeply and it seems, for a moment, like she’s gobbling a living thing into her lungs, distilling it, puffing it back out.

It’s like smoking, only the opposite, she thinks. Fresh. The stuff of life, not death.

‘Orright,’ she says, coming to a halt. ‘I’ll show youse.’

She squats down on her haunches in front of one of the burrows, feels it in her hips like rust, so gets down on her knees instead, feeds a length of wire into the darkness and gives it a wiggle. There’s a muffled squawk. She looks up at Lucy and Harry, and explains: ‘If there’s no squawking, there’s probably no chick. And there might be snakes, ya know? Never used to be any on this island, but it’s been years, so better safe than sorry.’

‘Where would they have come from?’ Lucy asks.

Flo shrugs. ‘Parks and Wildlife do all sorts of weird shit.’

Flo withdraws the piece of wire, lies down on her stomach and reaches into the hole, right up to her shoulder. She gropes around, feeling the sand and shit against her fingers, then: soft and spiky—the soft, feathery flapping against her hand, the pecking and clawing, just like she remembers. But it doesn’t hurt. Its infantile beak is too weak; all it can do is mouth at her. She feels around for something to grab hold of, and manages to grip it right around the curve of its belly. The screeching clarifies as she pulls the fat little thing out, blinking in the grey light.

She’d forgotten just how toddler-like they are. Like pups when they get to the curious stage. And she’d forgotten just how heartbreakingly delicate their fluffy down is. Like bulrushes or dandelions, about to release their seeds into the sky; one puff of wind and they’ll flutter away.