The girl sits on the edge of the verandah. The blood has dried, some of it absorbed into the fibres of the wood. Above her the moon is summoning the moths and lighting their trajectory, an Owlet Nightjar readying itself to swoop. The girl watches. She would like to stop this imminent death, but she has witnessed so many like it in her traversal of the desert, and before then, she knows her part is small in the mesh of things.

Despite all, she feels safe here. She would tell the bird as it dives, stall it a little in its endless pursuit, but she does not speak its language. Words come to her in jelly strands, in long searching roots, distorted flight paths, the gaps between stars. She is private, this one, with good reason, but silence can damage more than it protects. She knows it and prepares herself.

Some of the moths will see out the night.