Doesn't that hurt?" I said. "Yep." "How do you keep them in there?" "I'm stubborn." You grinned. "Stubborn as a waddywood. And anyway, pain means it's healing." "Not always.

I could hear you, talking to the daffodils and tulips, whispering to the fairies that lived inside their petals. Each separate flower had a different family inside it.

When I write this in bed, I can almost hear the echo of the wind over the sand, or the groans of wooden panels around me. I can almost smell the dustiness of the camel, taste the bitterness of saltbush. And when I dream, your warm hands cover my shoulders. Your whispers carry stories and sound like the rustle of spinifex. I still wear that ring, you know... at night, when no one is watching.

If there'd been an astronaut on the moon right then, I'm sure I could have seen him. Perhaps he could have looked down and seen me too... the only one who could.

I craved your warmth. I hugged myself, rubbing my fingers up and down. I guess people are like insects sometimes, drawn to heat, A kind of infra-red longing.

You're right, he's a killer," you said. "A rooster with some serious issues.

Nobody's bought this land. And no one's going to want it either. It's dying land, lonely land." "Like me, then," I said. "Yes, like you." You chewed the corner of your lip. "You both need saving.