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‘What do you reckon? You’d pay a hundred bucks to see a cool sunset, right, like with roos and birds and shit? Bit of sparkling wine thrown in?’

‘Sure,’ I murmur.

He grins, satisfied. ‘Could even do a bit of stargazing after.You ever had anyone show you the stars out here?’

I nod. ‘Car won’t be too much further,’ I say, hoping.

He tells me about a road trip he’s planning with some mates. Just as I’m convinced he’s about to invite me as part of my gap trip, my dirty, dusty car finally comes into view.

‘Blimey,’ he says, when he sees it. ‘You really did need my help!’

He lifts the jerry cans from the boot and uses a funnel to get the lifeblood inside the car. I watch, guzzling the water Tony gives me. Predictably, he brushes away my offer of assistance, so I just sit in the shade. Soon enough he’s writing his mobile number on the back of one of his new tour brochures and handing it to me.

‘That’s my personal number,’ he says, winking at me again. ‘Anything at all, just call! Always here to help a lady.’

He waits until I start the car, and I watch him wave at me in the rear-view mirror as I pull away. When dust finally obliterates my vision of him, I exhale loudly.

In the dusky forecourt of the petrol station, I fill the car up properly, then fill myself up with water too, before buying a phone charger for the journey back to Perth. The man behind the counter studies me. I think he might be smelling me, wanting me out of his establishment.

Before he can say anything, I get a cup of coffee from a nearby machine and sit at one of his tables, plugging my phone into a nearby socket. As I wait for it to switch on, I scratch a mosquito bite on my leg until the skin runs red with blood, until there’s blood under my fingernails. I pull my fingers away, even though I want to scratch all my skin off now. As I gaspdown the coffee, my phone starts pinging. I read the email from Rose first.

Dear Kate,

I pause. The name looks strange, after my time with you. It’s like thinking of a season I’m not in, imagining myself in different clothes, my skin a different shade. I feel a twist of guilt as I read her words: I’ve let her down, worried her.

Hope you don’t think I’m being nosy, but I had to reach out one last time. You must be about to have your big adventure, but I wanted to say before you go: if you need an ear to chew, I’m here and I’m sending you all the best, wherever you are. I’ll go on planning my own holiday in the meantime. Keep in touch, I’d love to know when you’re back in London, what you’re up to.

Sent earlier today.

I picture her, with a cup of tea and a tabby cat beside her. Will she ever get to go on her trip? I scroll back through what I wrote when I told her I was going into the desert. It was only a few days ago, yet it feels like a lifetime. I reply, because there is something I can tell her now.

Dear Rose,

I’m sitting in a petrol station. Seems my adventure wasn’t such an answer, after all. Nothing turns out as you expect, right? But, even so, I saw what I needed to for the last time. Out here, it’s not how it was. There’s more development. Mining is destroying the land. Whatever it was I needed to find is dead, gone.

I don’t advise you make your last trip here. Think about another type of wilderness. Or spend your last holiday with family and friends? I’ve come tothink people are the biggest wildernesses of all.

Thank you for your concern about my wellbeing. I’m fine. I’ll come back to London soon, and I’ll start over.

I’m surprised by what I write. Why am I saying all these things to a stranger I’ll never meet? Because I can be whoever I like with her. Rose thinks I’m knowledgeable and in control, and maybe that’s what I need to think too.

I look out at the car, almost pink now from the dust. I should burn it, get rid of the evidence. Your old jeans and blue shirt are on the back seat; I hope Tony didn’t notice. I might as well incinerate myself while I’m at it. I scratch the mosquito bite, check the charge on my phone. Half-full. Any moment now, I will drive away. I will turn right and head back down the Great Northern Highway all the way to Perth. And that will be it. The end.

But I can’t move yet.

I imagine your skin burning under the sun, your pain. Then I think of the endless red dirt and scrub, the zebra finches in the mulga trees. I remember what you told me once, that zebra finches recognise each other’s voices, that they have individual calls for their mates and remember those unique songs for as long as they’re alive.

I don’t know if I can do this.