She liked the quolls and their pretty spotted coats, but the Tasmanian devils were her favourites. They used to visit the farm too; she would hear them at night, shrieking and growling like monsters up near the shed and off in the forest. Father always complained about the mess they made of the compost heap. Devils sounded large and frightening, but they were only the size of a small dog. Miki liked them because they were feisty. They had black fur, bulbous noses, pink ears and whiskered muzzles, and a family of them lived here at the tip: two adults and three young. There used to be more, but last year the other two adults had developed sores on their faces then disappeared. Miki had persuaded herself they’d run away, but she was afraid they might have died.

Near the devils’ hangout, she squatted and made a line of meat scraps on the ground, then turned off her torch to wait. If the devils came out, she would ride on the thrill of it for a week.

After a while she saw movement in the shadows and a black shape loomed from the darkness. It was the female devil; Miki recognised the white crescent moon on her chest. The devil loped closer and stopped, forepaw raised, then sniffed the air and yawned, wide jaws and white teeth. Three small black youngsters scuttled to join her and snuffed across to the meat, hissing and gurgling as they wolfed it down.

Cross-legged on the dirt, Miki switched on her torch. The devils moved off a little, then the mother lay down and the young ones played around her like puppies, climbing over her, biting her face, ignoring her warnings. They were like children in the shop, Miki thought, scrapping over lollies, hitting their siblings, dragging at their mums. The mother devil growled at her babies, but she put up with their nips and bites and squabbles. Her patience made Miki think of her own mother because, unlike the devils, Miki and her mother had got along well—working together in the kitchen, kneading bread, churning butter, baking cakes. Evenings they’d sat by the fire knitting, while Father read aloud from the Bible and Kurt carved pieces of wood he’d found in the forest.

Miki had been friends with her mother, but Kurt and Father had clashed frequently, arguing over everything—farming techniques, decisions, even minor procedures in the orchard. They were too much alike, Miki thought. Both keen for power.