The girl is in the desert.

Before the Emu and his chicks, and the arranging of the stones.

It is her first night in the desert, and she huddles, tries not to feel alone. What is one species compared to all these thousands, she tells herself as she rubs her cold arms. On her shoulder is a bruise already turning the colour of a Slaty Helmet-orchid.

Though the matchbox is full, she dares not risk a fire as she is still too close. The moon provides her sole light. She eats the bread she brought with her, crumbly in her mouth, the bottle beside her, in the sand, already empty. She knows what her first morning task will be.

Above her, the night wind pulls at the canopy and encourages the trees to talk, their branches leaning this way, that way, creaking as they rub against each other. Normally, she loves their chatter, but tonight the leaf rustle sounds like quarrelling to her.

From deeper in the desert come the cries of feral cats. They are fighting over a Fat-tailed Dunnart they found hiding in a hollow, the marsupial too tiny to satisfy their hunger. As they tear the dunnart limb from limb, they hiss and spit and the wind carries their sounds to the girl, who draws her knees to her chest. She has done this many times before, before she ran into the desert. All those nights listening out, making herself so small she might not be found.

A Common Gum Snout Moth lands near her bare foot. She could crush it with a swift movement. This is the way she has been taught. Pain for pain. Beside her, the moth opens and closes its furry wings. She looks up at the moon for an answer. It has a green halo tonight. She wishes she could reach up and let it fall on her wrist, something beautiful to guide her through.

Once more the cats’ cries reach her from afar. She leans down and, with a wave of her hand, coaxes the moth into the air. Where it begins its ceaseless journey towards the moon.