‘Let’s see yours,’ said Dakota, grabbing my wombat-ology scrapbook as soon as I sat down. It was Friday, and since our projects were due at the end of the day, Mr Wilco was giving us an hour to work on them instead of playing Red Rover.

‘It’s not finished yet,’ I said, trying to pull it back. I still had to fix the title page and my sketch of Pumpkin.

Dakota turned the pages. ‘Did you draw these?’ she asked. There was a sketch of Miss Pearl frolicking in the yard, another of Willow sleeping by the pot-belly stove and one of Fatticake, his fur all stuck up.

I nodded.

‘Wow! My mum would love these. Can you do one for her?’

I grimaced. Dakota’s mum would think my sketches were childish, wouldn’t she?

‘I’ll pay you for it.’

‘No, it’s okay.’

‘Would you take twenty dollars?’

Mr Wilco raised his head from the tests he was marking. ‘Shh,’ he warned.

I felt my face flush as I dipped my head to reach for my scrapbook, but Dakota was like a puppy with a chew toy, not keen to give it up. She pored over the pictures I’d pasted in – fenced-off burrows, wombat gates, and re-vegetation ideas for eroded creeks.

‘Hey, that’s neat.’ She turned my book around. ‘Are those your initials, upside down?’

I’d forgotten about my doodled logos for Wildlife Warriors. The WW did look like two Ms upside down.

‘You know? Mouse Matheson?’ asked Dakota.

‘They’re not my initials,’ I said, taking my scrapbook back.

‘So, what then?’

‘WW stands for the Wombat Warriors. Not that it matters anymore.’

Dakota’s eyes sparkled. ‘Wombat Warriors? That’s cool! Who are the Wombat Warriors?’

‘Were. Who were the Wombat Warriors.’ I sighed. ‘Just some people who thought they could make a difference.’ I picked at the binding of my book. ‘But they didn’t. They failed.’

Dakota pointed to my project. ‘Failed? But what about this?’ she insisted. ‘Have you seen your scrapbook? You’ll get an A for sure if you keep going. Don’t give up now!’

Mr Wilco looked up again. ‘Girls!’

Dakota turned back to her planet-ology scrapbook, while I quietly checked through mine.

Dakota was right.

I couldn’t give up.

Not now.

Not ever.

‘Earth to Mouse!’

‘Huh?’

‘It’s for you.’ Dakota was pushing a folded note into my hands while rolling her eyes in Harry’s direction. ‘From him.’

I pulled the note into my lap.

I glanced over at Harry, who was making square shapes with his fingers. Suddenly I clicked. Twenty dollars could go towards the wombat gates and fences.

‘Done,’ I said, turning to Dakota. ‘Make it twenty-five dollars, and the sketch is yours.’

‘What do you mean “no”?’

Mum and Dad were peering anxiously at me through the laptop screen.

I hadn’t meant to say ‘no’ out loud. But when they told me they were coming home early, two weeks early to be precise, it just kind of blurted out.

‘Well, what I mean is … um … I won’t be ready to go home.’ That would mean leaving Miss Pearl and Willow and Pumpkin before we’d had a chance to find them a new place to live.

‘Aunt Evie tells me you’ve been quite the adventurer,’ said Dad. ‘What’s all this about wombat holes?’

I explained about Harry and his rescue from Fatticake’s burrow, and then told them how I’d shown Mrs Campbell my scrapbook, and she’d agreed to ‘consider’ the changes, as long as we came up with the money.

When I’d finished, Mum smiled. ‘So, what are you going to do to raise all this money?’ she asked.

I decided to test out Harry’s idea. ‘Someone suggested I sell my artwork,’ I said.

Mum nodded enthusiastically. ‘Great idea. I’ll buy a sketch or two. What’s your price? A hundred dollars for two? Nanna’s neighbours have been so lovely helping us out, I’m sure they’d love an original artwork. Which one’s your favourite?’

I thought about all the sketches in my scrapbook. There were at least twenty good ones, and, at Mum’s prices, I’d easily make a thousand dollars. Besides, I could always draw more.

Maybe the Wombat Warriors could do it after all?