Grim-faced and silent, Kurt stuffed the wrapper into his pocket then strode back to the car, Miki scuttling anxiously behind him. He lurched in behind the steering wheel. ‘Get in,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to the hives.’ He backed the ute down the disused grassy track that led to the hiding place, braking with a jolt that sent Miki into the dashboard. ‘What the fuck?’ he barked.

He leaped out and, panicking, Miki followed.

The hives were scattered on the ground in pieces: boxes broken and frames strewn. No bees.

Kurt stared at the ruined hives, hands on hips, nostrils flaring. He was quivering, and it seemed to Miki that he was buzzing with all the angry energy of the bees that had lived in those hives—and that, at any moment, he might erupt and bees would pour out of him.

He kicked at the fragmented pieces of wood with his steel-capped boot. ‘Fucking bastards,’ he yelled. ‘Rotten, fucking mongrels.’ He laid his boot in several times, then picked up a slab of wood and hurled it at a nearby tree with a crash. Miki cowered. It reminded her of Father in a rage. Sometimes when things had gone wrong on the farm, Father had gone off, just like this. A blockage in the water pump. A car or tractor that wouldn’t start. Once, he’d spent hours methodically taking the lawnmower apart and putting it together again, and it still wouldn’t go. Miki had watched him trying to start it, pulling the ripcord again and again, becoming more and more jerky and violent, until he’d flung the mower in an arc across the lawn. Thank goodness it had fallen on soft grass and hadn’t been damaged; they never could have afforded another one.

Now Kurt grabbed a second piece of wood and threw it wildly into the bush, then another, with the intent of slamming it into the ground. But a yell curdled in his throat, and suddenly he hunched over. Bees were attached to his hand. He slapped at them, brushing them off and yowling with pain. The bees must have been hiding among the bits of wood, left behind when the rest of the hive departed. Kurt nursed his hand, anguished. He’d been stung before, but never like this. He was panting. ‘I’ll kill the bastards who did this to my bees.’

Miki was relieved it wasn’t the bees he was angry with, but she was worried about his hand, which was already starting to swell. ‘We need to get you to a doctor,’ she said.