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Naya nodded, smiled, her relief at Mira’s rescue from the mudslide feeling doubly intense now that she knew she’d also survived cancer.

She stood up – but she moved fast, much too fast, and a wave of nausea rose up and took her in its grip.

No, no, not now. Naya turned away from Mira, away from all of them – she refused to vomit in front of the others, especially Scott; she did still have some dignity; she wanted to maintain some appearance of attractiveness near someone she was already feeling so drawn to.

She stumbled towards the waterfall, her hand covering her mouth, reached the tree where they’d taken shelter, just had time to lean over before the vomit started to rise. She threw up until there was nothing left but yellow bile; she wiped her mouth, tried to calm her heart rate.

Her hands moved, instinctively, towards her stomach, feeling for the scar that spanned its width, splitting her belly in two, the way the surgeon had when each of her children came screaming into the world.

Their short lives flashed before her eyes like a movie reel: bawling red-faced babies, blundering toddlers, first days at school with uniform hanging off them like dolls playing dress up.

Tears, hers and theirs; well-meaning but heart-rending concern about their development from doctors and teachers and, now, their family therapist.

And then the chaos of her own conflicted feelings. Because Naya wouldn’t change her children. Whenever people asked her how she coped, that’s the first thing she said. She meant it; she wouldn’t. They were perfect. They were exactly as they were meant to be.

She’d change how hard things were for them, though.

She’d take away their meltdowns and the way they suffered trying to do things that others took for granted, like going to a supermarket or making new friends.

She’d change the fact that none of the things she’d tried – speech and language sessions, occupational therapy, social stories, everything the professionals recommended – none of them made much of a difference; nothing seemed to help much, or for long.

She would change the world around them too, if she could.

And she’d change other people: the way they looked at Marcus when a car horn beeped and he fell to the floor, screaming, hands clamped to his ears.

Or the way they treated Elodie when she was too exhausted to keep the mask up any longer, when it had to come off, and everyone acted like she was a different person all of a sudden.

A person they didn’t understand, or maybe even like, if they were being honest. But it was the Elodie without her mask – a nine-year-old girl who liked to mew like a kitten and spin in circles until she felt sick – the real Elodie, that’s who Naya saw.

That’s who she loved. And yet it was hard – getting harder all the time, in a way.

It must have been; she wouldn’t have come here if everything was OK. If she was coping .

‘Naya – are you all right?’ Scott was standing next to her now, one large hand reaching to her shoulder.

Naya nodded, stood up. ‘Sorry, yes – I think it was just the shock of it all, and I stood up too fast – I’m OK now.’

‘Here,’ he said, handing her his water bottle.

‘Drink something.’ Naya took a slow sip, waited for the liquid to settle in her stomach.

She looked at the others; all exhausted, all covered in damp mud, leaves in their hair, bodies slumped, exhausted.

She watched Mira, still recovering her strength.

She’d need help if she was going to manage more than an hour of hiking; Naya wasn’t sure she was strong enough to walk back herself now.

She felt a sudden flash of irritation. Why are we doing this without Hannah, anyway?

Wasn’t this supposed to be a guided retreat, helping them to learn how to heal, away from the trappings of rigid, traditional medicine?

Teaching her some new techniques and ideas to help both herself and her children?

So why had Hannah decided to travel to another town on the very day they were arriving, when she knew a storm was coming?

A DIY wellness experience and being out in a rainforest with no guide wasn’t what any of them had signed up for; she might as well have stayed at home and hoped to achieve respite via the online forums for mothers of autistic children she sometimes visited.

At least with those, she knew exactly what she was signing up for.

She’d left her children behind, come all the way here; she deserved more than this. They all did.

‘I wonder if we should use the satellite phone now,’ she said, turning towards Carly. ‘You have it, right?’ Carly nodded, bent down to open her backpack. ‘I’m just not sure Mira should try to walk back – she’s weak still. I think perhaps we should call for help?’

‘You’re right,’ said Scott, nodding. ‘She should probably get checked over in hospital – do you reckon, Naya?’

Naya nodded. ‘I think that’s for the best.’

As she glanced at Carly, waited for her to dig out the satellite phone, she heard a quiet gasp behind her, a mumbled, ‘Oh, holy shit.’ What now?

Naya turned; it was Ben. He was staring at the path from the waterfall that led back towards the house, a finger pointing towards it. She followed its direction.

‘The rain – it must have dislodged more mud,’ he said.

‘The track is covered – there’s no way we can use that now.

’ Naya squinted, then walked a few feet towards the track.

Sure enough, a layer of mud, at least a metre high and almost four times as wide, had now gathered at the point where the path met the edge of the clearing.

‘Fuck,’ said Carly. ‘It’s totally blocked the pathway – we can’t walk over it. It’s way too dangerous – we might dislodge a load more earth.’

Naya wanted to protest, but she knew it was no use. Carly was right.

There was no safe route back the way they had come.