Clare smiled, thinking about how she’d almost pointed out the distinctive leopard claw-marks on a nearby tree as Faye helped her to the shelter earlier. The bark was slashed in several places, leaving deep wounds and scars. The older lacerations had oxidised and turned brown. Other more recent gashes were white. A few were so freshly inflicted that the resin glistened in the evening light. Clare recalled the leopard pawprint she’d seen near the ravine. They were in leopard territory. She was about to mention as much when she remembered how Faye had responded to the pigs and bats the day before. The older woman would, thought Clare, be unnerved by the evidence of the big cat. She’d insist on going elsewhere. They’d have to walk on and Faye would have to build a new shelter. Clare neither wanted to move any more nor did she want to create any more work for Faye. So she said nothing and, as Faye recounted her fear of the baboons, she was pleased she hadn’t.

“I meant to ask,” said Faye. “Did you see the Bloukrans River before you fell? Do you remember?”

“I did. Got a good view of it. It was overflowing. Made the stream near the cabin look like a trickle. I think I also saw Grootkloof Cabin.”

“Really? You saw it clearly?”

“I saw the path leading to it and its roofs. I was trying to get a better view when I fell.”

“Ah. So, is it close the Bloukrans River then? Grootkloof, I mean?”

“Pretty close. Not on the river bank, though. I guess half an hour away or so.”

The rain continued pattering the canopy.

“I wonder where they are now?” said Clare, almost as to herself. “My poor dad. I’ve given him enough to worry about and now this.”

“Geoffrey will understand.”

“I know, but he, well, he takes on so much. It’s hard to watch.”

“What do you mean?”

Clare pictured the look on her father’s face when, at the airport, he hadn’t recognised her until she stood in front of him and spoke. She recalled the sound of his sobbing later and thought about how seldom he looked directly at her, as if seeing his daughter was too painful to bear.

“He makes me feel ashamed of what I’ve become,” she said. “Ashamed of how weak he thinks I am.”

“Your dad? Surely not. He’s—”

“He doesn’t mean to, but . . .” Clare regretted having initiated the conversation.

“How then?”

The shelter was quiet but for the rain.

The girl emitted a tiny, shaky sigh. “I’ve let this illness consume three years of my life. I should’ve sorted myself out by now.”

“Is that how it works though? Is it possible to simply sort yourself out? Aren’t you being hard on yourself?”