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I hesitate. Haven’t I killed enough this trip? And this creature, with the patterns across its skin, is so beautiful.

‘It’ll be quick,’ you add. ‘And then, dinner. Meat, finally.’

When I don’t move, you kiss the very top of my left ear and press your finger on top of mine, and we shoot together. After all these years, the gun still works. The lizard’s tongue is darting out for water when he tips over into the dirt.

You move off me, towards the lizard, and I’m left with the gun. Are there more bullets inside? My finger still on the trigger, I aim it at you, see what it feels like. It wouldn’t take much: one finger to move a couple of centimetres, to press down. It had been nothing at all to shoot that lizard. Too easy, really. One movement again, and all this would be really over.

When you turn back to me, your eyes don’t even widen when you see the gun pointing at you. You stand up straighter, in fact, even more in my sights. If I shoot, you could tip straight back into the pool.

‘Do it, if you want,’ you say. ‘I’ve come to reckon you deserve it.’

But do you mean I deserve this revenge for what you did to me, or do I deserve what’s going to come to me after I shoot you? You don’t elaborate. You just tap your chest, your heart, my target. You smile, all teeth. Maybe this is what you really want. Or what I want. True release. I put my eye up against the gun and look down the barrel.

I make a fire near where the lizard died. All the time, I wonder if it’s safe, if anyone will see the smoke.

‘I’ll keep the flames low,’ I murmur.

The lizard roasts nicely. I pick its juicy, soft flesh off the bones with my teeth, and it’s good, finer than any fillet steak. I don’t think about the car, or the escape plan, or what’s going to happen tomorrow.

Later, I lie near you, the embers from the fire still warm. The night is not as clear as it has been, the moon waxing and cloud cover moving in. But there is little wind, no distant thunder, so it might not mean bad weather is on the way. A distant yipping is probably from a dingo, but I think of our fox. I haven’t seen her for a few days, and I know she now depends on you for food. Where will she go if we both leave?

I lean up onto my elbows and stroke the hair away from where it’s stuck to your face, away from your shut eyes. Perhaps you did fix the car for me, not for you. Is that your kind of sacrifice, your apology?

As I fall asleep in the middle of our rocks, to the sound of the grasses rustling and frogs croaking, I clasp your hand in mine.

I dream we dive down to find the spring beneath the rocks, the source. The pool overflows and we ride on the water acrossthe land. I dream our journey forges a river and that we sing to make it deeper. And I swim, swim, swim for the sea.

Only you’re not singing when I wake.

You’re not here anymore.