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I suppose it doesn’t matter if I untie you now—where can you go? Unless you found the strength to push the car back out of the sand…I appraise you through the window. Once I wouldn’t have put anything past you.

‘Soon,’ I say.

I duck into the driver’s seat and take the key from the ignition. When I look back at you, you’re as still as a snake, your eyes darting to the glovebox. It’s obvious what you want, what you’re still planning. I open it and take out the drugs.

I go straight past the house—there’ll be time enough to explore that later. Here, on the other side of the building, there’s an unobstructed view of the Separates. I have a sudden urge to make sure they’re all here, all real. I’ve thought about these rocks so often—dreamt about them too—but it’s still a shock to see them again, rising magnificent from the scrappy scrub and flat land all around, as if someone had dropped them there by accident. I hope whoever ruined your den hasn’t ruined thesetoo, defaced them with scrawled, horrible words.

I pull off a small dry branch from one of the mulga trees growing near the side of the den and walk over to where two termite mounds stand erect, exclamation marks in the sand. I dig, deep as I can with only the branch, my small knife, and my hands, and put the car key and the pills in the hole. I drop the bags of weed in too, then remove them. You probably need something to help with the withdrawal from the other drugs I’ve forced into you.

You see, Ty, I do care.

I fill in the hole with sand and stick the mulga branch in upright, burying the base to mark the spot and leaning the top of the branch against a termite mound. Then I kick more sand over the spot to disguise my digging.

Satisfied with my handiwork, I come back to untie you. You’ve managed to tip yourself out of the car onto the dirt and are now leaning against a tyre, but your attempt to pull your feet from the ropes is not going well. I take my little knife and slit through them. Now you’re free and you watch me, gimlet-eyed. I don’t doubt that you could overpower me if you wanted. I should have thought this through. Bringing you here is like bringing a wild animal out from a cage; I should have taken more precautions, kept the ropes around you for longer. When you took me, you had prepared this place for months, years, and I was a teenage girl, not a fully grown man. You could torture me, get me to give you the key and pills, make me take you back. Or worse. It’s just you and me out here alone, after all. But you just keep looking at me, as you move your legs out from the rope. Maybe you feel as if you’ve ruined me enough. I swallow and tighten my grip on the knife all the same.

‘Where’d you put everything?’ you say, your eyes darting to somewhere behind me.

‘Somewhere you can’t find.’

The sand in my fingernails stains my skin. I’m hiding things in your land. Once, you would have got angry about me touching your space, changing it. You turn back to face me, as if you’re considering all the things you could do to me. I keep your gaze; I won’t show any weakness. I’ll be like the Separates, immovable.

‘How long you going to do this stupid game?’

I shrug. We will stay until you apologise, until you give me something back.

And there we are, a plan.

It feels easier now, doesn’t it?

I imagine my skin turning into smooth, hard rock, my emotions and resolve solid. I’m the one in charge.

‘If you’re good, I’ll give you some weed later.’

I don’t know whether you believe me, or care, but you look away. You glance towards your den. If you’re sad about what you see, your face doesn’t show it. Maybe you’re thinking that, if you’re going to die anywhere, this is as good a place as any. Maybe I should be thinking like that too.

‘This place ruined my life,’ you say very softly. ‘You must know that.’

I didn’t expect these words from you. They hurt. There’s a whole heap I could tell you about feeling ruined.

‘You don’t know shit about having your life ruined!’

‘Yeah? You reckon?’ You turn quickly and spit.

The gob lands near my shoes. I repress the urge to spit back. I take a step towards you, crunching dry leaves.

‘Did you try to kill yourself?’ I say. ‘In prison? People do, Ihear. Did you feel so bad that you tried?’

‘None of your fucking business.’

But how dare you? Everything about you is my business, just as everything about me was yours.

‘Maybe you should’ve,’ I say.

The sun is searing my shoulders, the backs of my legs—it feels like a challenge. Am I tough enough to bear it?

You look at me, one eyebrow raised. ‘Beginning to wish I had. Just to escape this nonsense.’

I’m about to unleash the anger inside me, when I remember the fox. The inside of the car must be like a furnace.