As if we wouldn’t. Most people don’t venture beyond the curl of white sand that hugs the bay, but we like to clamber around the headland. There’s a sheltered nook we think of as ours. It’s mostly boulders worn smooth by the surf, but there’s a little half-moon beach just big enough for us to lie side by side on our towels. A slab of rust-coloured granite looms out of the water about a town pool’s length from the shore. It’s got a crack running longways down the middle, like a

They’re feuding. Have been for months. Next time, the dog gets a bullet. She ruffles Baxter’s fur – watch it buddy – but one whiff of sheep and he’s over the fence, ears pinned, nipping at lamb rumps. The gunshot splits time. She finds Baxter in undergrowth, blood soaked and stiff. That same day, her husband leaves her with two under two. Word gets around. Winter bites. The neighbour appears, unbidden. He stacks wood in her shed, unloads hay for the horses. Thought you could

She leaves him in the barber’s chair; time enough for one errand. When she goes back for him, he’s bald. Every silver-white curl is gone....