She knew she’d have to sit up. This time she’d do it slowly. She lifted her torso using her right arm, keeping her left elbow tucked into her side to protect her ribs. There was no rush, she told herself. Slow and steady. Move and rest. Breathe. Pay attention. Do no harm. Remain conscious.

Finally upright, she placed a hand on her head, tapping her skull lightly and running her fingers through her hair to confirm she hadn’t hit her head. There was neither bruising nor blood. The fainting must have been caused by shock, pain or a combination of both. Leaning slightly forward, she straightened her right leg. It, too, seemed unscathed. The problems were on her left side, primarily her knee and lower ribs.

Clare was crying with exhaustion and pain by the time she had pulled herself the short distance along the ledge to where she was able to drag herself up and over the boulders, and across the rough ground to the summit. Her skin bled where it had been shredded by the jagged earth and stubbly vegetation. She lay on a patch of bare ground until her breathing and tears stilled. She pictured the route to the cabin. Would Faye come and look for her? If she did, they would miss one another if Clare wasn’t on the path. She had to get there as soon as she could.

Uncertain her injured knee would support any weight at all, she thought of standing and it made her stomach churn. Clare sat up and looked around for a stick she could use as a crutch. The mountain fynbos was short and bushy, and the trees too far away to have deposited any suitable branches. She’d have to make do without support. How could she test her knee? She thought about what her dad had taught her years previously.

Nine-year-old Clare had accompanied her father to meet a new client. They stood and surveyed the man’s yard, which, following renovations to the house, resembled a building site rather than a garden. The client pointed to a messy ditch running from an overflow pipe off the roof.

“That’s going to be an issue every time we have rain,” he said. “You’ll probably have to put a pipe underground.”

“Hmm. Not necessarily,” replied her dad. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

Her father went on to propose lining the drain with river stones and planting the edges as if it were a natural waterway. It would be beautiful. The client was delighted.

As they drove home, Geoffrey glanced at Clare. “Is something wrong? You’re very quiet.”

She shook her head but contemplated the question for a moment. “I can’t stop thinking about you skinning a cat,” she said, eyes straight ahead.