The concern, unspoken amongst us, was whether goodwill would hold. We’d been on the road for weeks; children walking alongside the wagons until they fell and were thrown on top. Last Monday, however, we made landfall. The ridge achieved and this small place found. We pitched at the river. The days spread out and the nerves grew softer: perhaps they would let us stay. Too much to hope. This morning we found the red mess of a cat, clumped in break and blood, waiting by the fire. We were miles off by ten, when John caught up with us, the wet knife in his belt and the smoke rising behind him.
We pulled the blind down but left a slit of open window for you to duck to and poke the cigarette through. You slid up to the centimetre of air: a diver going above at last. From behind you I saw this brilliant woman, this brilliant beautiful woman escaping the surface disaster on water; raising a hollow reed through the gap in the window.