Three weeks without rain. The motels have had a water tanker in, but all the locals are toughing it out. The air at sea level is hazy with evaporation and the black grid-work of the oil rig they’re building in the shelter of the Bay has disappeared completely. I’m on the beach with David MacDonald, my same age cousin, who didn’t do well in School C and is going into the army next year. We can only spend time together now if we have an occupation of some sort. A project. We’re building a trap. David’s done all the digging. We’ve covered the pit with criss-crossed sticks, then newspaper, and a layer of sand. My job has been to imagine what’ll it’ll be like when our older sisters Mary and Steph come back from their walk and fall into it. Mum appears and says, ‘Don’t wander off, Elizabeth. Auntie Thel will need another pair of hands.’ Then she wades into the waist high grass of the empty lot and lies down. We wait for a bit, and then go over. Mum looks comfortable, if incongruous. She says, ‘I won’t take sides.’ Then, ‘Let’s see if anyone misses me.’ David and I understand that we’re party to an experiment and mustn’t spoil it for her. We go back and check the beach. No Steph and Mary. David is sick of waiting