‘What’s the possession limit?’ Lucy asks.

‘Ten per person, I think,’ Harry says. ‘How many are we on, Mum?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘Ah, we’re laughing then. I think this one here is the last of ’em anyway. And no by-catch,’ he adds, grinning at Lucy.

‘That’ll keep Jem happy.’ She laughs, and although Harry laughs with her, the mention of Jem curbs his elation, just a little. Although he soon forgets Jem exists when he pulls the craypot and finds a big crimson lobster, trapped behind the tea-tree bars. He can’t believe it.

‘Oh my god! What was that? In the water for two hours, tops? What are the chances? No one’ll believe me. Fark. Look at the size of that thing!’ he laughs as he hauls the pot back into the boat. He sits down on the seat next to his mother and gazes up into the pale sky. Takes the time to drink in a couple of deep breaths and tries his best to memorise the moment: the air, the sea, the fish, the birds. The company.

‘Hey, you want to take us home, Luce?’

Luce. There it is again, coming out of his mouth. Luce.

She doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, she doesn’t seem to mind. ‘If you’re sure,’ is all she says.

‘Go for it.’

She stands as she drives. Her bare feet are planted firmly on the boat floor, her left foot edged further forward than her right, and she settles her weight back into her right hip, which accentuates its curve. He can see that she’s shivering with cold. He wishes he had more clothing to give her. But it’d be strange if he stripped his flanny and went topless beneath his Stormy and, in any case, the wind whipping off the dimpled ocean is causing him to shiver too. Not that he minds. Tonight, he doesn’t mind anything.

‘They’re beautiful, aren’t they?’ Lucy shouts over the drone of the two-stroke, pointing to the darkening eastern sky.

The gibbous moon is on the rise, which catches Harry by surprise. Night falls so quickly this time of year, he thinks to himself. It looks massive, in that way it always does when it’s hugging the horizon. Then he notices what Lucy’s talking about: the dark shapes of mutton-birds flitting across its light like bats swarming.

‘That’s why they call ’em moon birds,’ his mother yells.

‘I thought it was because of a myth about them being left homeless, when the moon fell into the sky?’ Lucy shouts back.

‘Yeah?’ Flo responds.

‘Yeah. Because the moon is the same size as the Pacific Ocean and so when it fell from the Earth to the sky the ocean flooded into the space where their home used to be. They never land except here, when they breed. The rest of the time they just fly over the Pacific, looking for their lost home. Or something like that.’

‘Is that an Aboriginal story?’ Harry asks, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of the motor.