Nora Ramusa’s case is now before the immigration minister, and this newspaper would like to urge Mr. Ruddock to show compassion by offering permanent protection instead of temporary asylum to Nora and her daughter, Rose—named after the township of Rosebud, where her mother spent much of her convalescence upon arrival in the country, and where she says she first met and made some of her most important friendships while in Australia. Friends who are currently campaigning—along with dozens of other representatives from Kosovar communities—to let those brought here under Operation Safe Haven remain, instead of returning to an unstable and volatile homeland.

We add our voices to their campaign.

We’ve boundless plains to share, Mr. Ruddock—and we urge you to let them call Australia home.

It was weeks later, and I was still asking Luca if there was any news on them, and he said that as soon as he knew, I’d know—because he’d tell me ASAP, which meant As Soon As Possible.

And I told him that waiting was the hardest part—waiting to hear if Nora and Rose were allowed to stay, how much trouble Pop and Mr. Khouri were in, and that the war was really over.

“But, Winifred,” he said, “life isn’t like a map you can follow—these things take time, and there’s no clear starting point or X marking the spot at the end. . . .”

And I was about to tell him that proper maps weren’t like that either, but then I suddenly had a thought. A clear direction, in my head.

Which was how we came to be snaking our way back up Arthurs Seat—what the Boon Wurrung people called Wonga—and which is actually just a hill, but feels more like a mountain when you’re making that climb squished in the back seat between your pop and your brother on a bright hot day in December, watching as Anika was reaching out and Luca was, too, bringing their clasped hands to his lips for a kiss before the next bend.

And then a few moments later, it was Sam and me standing side by side, waiting for the chairlift seat to touch the backs of our knees.

“Ready?” I said.

Sam pushed his glasses up his nose, and kind of gulped. “I guess?”

I reached for his hand and squeezed, and then the chair came and we both folded into the seat and it swayed a bit with the weight of us—but carried away just fine.

I looked over and saw that his eyes were closed behind his glasses, his hands gripping the metal bar and turning white.

But I didn’t tell him to open his eyes, or that he was missing out.

Instead I gripped my own hands to the bar and told him what I was seeing. My perspective.