Hana paused on a ledge and forced herself to look at the fire one last time. It swallowed the rest of the house and licked towards more of the dilapidated outbuildings, satiating itself in a feast of wood and sacrificial human flesh. The grass and bushes up to twenty metres around the house glistened with droplets of water in the dancing light, hailing Logan’s failed attempt at damping down.
Hana heard her husband’s voice in her head, remembered whispered confidences on a shared pillow. “If you can’t put a fire out in the bush, you douse as much as you can around it, to prevent it ripping out of control and going for miles,” he had said. “But I hope it never happens here, because it’ll eat this mountain alive.”
In the unreal scene below her, Michael became the family rock, comforting Liz
