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sea. A dry ocean, rippling as far as the eye can bear to see.
    At take-off the pilot had looked over his shoulder. ‘OK?’ he’d said and they were off. No safety procedures, no mention of oxygen masks or checking of belts, just that casual OK and the jerk and grind over dirt and up, tilting till the earth rose sheer beside them.
    Larry sits up front beside the pilot. He turns round.
    ‘How far?’ Graham asks.
    ‘See that ridge –?’ Larry points to a mark becoming visible on the horizon, like a smudge of crimson crayon. ‘Just beyond that is Woolagong. Look down.’
    Cassie leans to look again. The plane skitters and Graham crushes her hand, eyes straight ahead. Sweat beads on his forehead. ‘Not long,’ she mouths into his ear. Please don’t be sick, she thinks, not in the plane. There are no sick bags that she can see. And she couldn’t bear to give the pilot the satisfaction. Although he’d probably have to clear it up. And serve him right.
    Stupid
that earlier she had been so scared. Of nothing. Of a pool of water – and now dancing above desolation she feels fine, exhilarated, sort of
free
. Here they are, she and Graham. High and free, in an adventure. She looks at him: he’s gone putty-coloured, eyes shut.
    Below is the straight line of a road, a thin scar leading to an open mess of brown, ochre and rusty red.
    ‘Gold mine,’ Larry yells. ‘Used to be. See the old town?’
    A flock of birds swim under the plane like a shoal of tiddlers, and beneath them Cassie can see nothing but jerky glimpses of ajunction, a neat cross, the arms of which give out again into the scrub. And one track threading away, travelling miles to nowhere obvious. Nowhere but the bush.
    ‘Where are the houses?’
    ‘Long gone.’ The plane jerks and Graham gulps and nearly breaks her fingers. Cassie scowls at the smug red neck beneath the hat, the oily-looking strands of hair that show beneath. He surely is enjoying himself.
    ‘Steady on, Kip!’ Larry says to the pilot. He raises a wiry eyebrow at Cassie. ‘All right?’ He nods at Graham.
    Graham snaps open his eyes. ‘I’m fine,’ he says.
    Cassie’s fingers are numb. She disengages her hand and shakes it to get the circulation back, a drip of sweat splashing on her knee. She reaches for her water bottle, swigs, offers it to Graham but he ignores her.
    ‘Just hang on,’ she says.
    Again the bush has closed below them, featureless but for a rock here, something a bit greener there. The sun is lower in the sky, making the ridge glow, powdering the green with gold, complicating it with shadows.
    Cassie leans forward and touches Larry’s shoulder. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she says, gesturing at the glorious effect of the light. The aeroplane dips, tilts a wing and her heart soars.
    The landing is a bumping roar culminating in a dusty choke of red so that for a moment there is nothing to see but dust. Graham is out, soon as the door opens, just in time, turns away, puking on the ground.
    Kip grins. ‘Oh dear. Pom got crook, eh?’ Cassie flicks him a look and goes to stand by Graham, but she has to dip her head to hide a smile. So they really do talk like that. Or is he having her on?
    ‘Care for a beer?’ Larry says.
    Kip shakes his head. ‘Nah, mate, wanna get back before dark.’ He turns back to the plane, unloads the rucksacks and the eskies of food, dumps them in the dirt beside the plane.
    Graham straightens up.
    ‘OK now?’ Cassie says.
    He grins sheepishly, scrubs his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Never better,’ he says.
    ‘See yers,’ Kip says. ‘G’luck.’ He jumps back into the plane and it takes off, churning up the dust again. They turn, hands shielding their eyes to watch it rising into a glare of sun, banking and diminishing into a speck of black, mosquito small till it strains their eyes to see. He leaves a hush in which the rhythmic creaking of the pump is the only sound.
    ‘Welcome,’ Larry says. ‘Welcome at last to Woolagong