Beyond the island, Abby could see the ferry coming in, cutting a foamy white line between Belport and the Bellarine Peninsula, connecting them like an umbilical cord.

From Harvill Hill, she turned right and jogged down to Bay Street, Belport’s main drag. A single traffic light dangled across the intersection of Bay and Bramwell, blinking amber against the grey, storm-lit afternoon. On one side of the street stood the All-You-Need Gas & Petrol station. On the other was the Belport Inn, known colloquially as the Belly, a cosy, Irish-themed pub full of stained-glass lamps and nautical paintings.

The restaurants, gift shops and newsagency were all closed for the off-season. Huddled together at the bottom of Bay Street were the post office, the public library, and the Belport Police Station.

The boardwalk carnival rose on her right as she neared the coast, looming in silhouette beneath an overcast sky. The front gates were padlocked. The Sky Winder, a famously dull roller-coaster, stood still and silent, its scaffolding like a giant, jagged ribcage. The Ferris wheel, a twinkling ring of yellow lights in summer, was dark.

Abby kept running, down along the promenade, through the deserted foreshore campgrounds and down onto the beach, where the sand was wet and hard. The choppy blue waters of Bass Strait stretched on and on to her right. The air smelled like fish and salt.

A flock of nervous seagulls watched her from under the awnings of the shuttered bait shop, as if wondering why a human would be punishing herself like this.

A stitch had settled in Abby’s left side that sent darts of pain through her abdomen, but she kept going. Her breathing was hot and arrhythmic, her legs like dry bamboo, shuddering with each stride. Her bowels felt like slippery eels trying to escape a bucket. The fear of shitting herself had never been more real. She hurt, but it was a wonderful hurt, one that reminded her she was alive.

She didn’t stop to catch her breath until she reached the big stone seawall that stood at the far edge of the beach. The wall separated the beach from the boat ramps on the other side. Huge clumps of tangled seaweed clung to it like tentacles. A large metal warning sign was bolted to it: Strong currents, submerged objects, slippery rocks, shallow water, unexpected waves. Alcohol prohibited, diving prohibited. Across it, written in red spray paint, was Fun prohibited.

Hands on hips, Abby straightened up and looked out over the water while she caught her breath. Between May and October, it wasn’t uncommon to see humpbacks, southern rights, blues, and even the occasional orca pass by the island on their annual pilgrimage from their feeding grounds in Antarctica to Australia’s warmer waters, but today the water looked hostile and sullen. It was hard to imagine anything going on beneath it.

There’s not a whole lot going on above it either, Abby thought.