The Upwelling

by Lystra Rose

Genres: Young Adult

Synopsis

A CAPTIVATING YOUNG ADULT DEBUT FROM THE WINNER OF THE BLACK&WRITE! WRITING FELLOWSHIP

Kirra is having vivid dreams about terrible things - things that start to come true. When she goes for a surf on the same break that killed her older brother, she somehow slips into a time and place that's completely different - but eerily familiar.

Tarni is the daughter of a renowned warrior, with a special gift. Somehow she can understand this visitor and her strange language, even when no-one else can.

Narn is preparing for an important ritual but is distracted by the girl who arrives with the dolphins. Why has Kirra been sent to this place? Is her arrival part of an ancient prophecy, like some believe?

When a shadow threatens all living things in the land, the three realise they have an important role to play, as do their newly discovered magical powers. Working together will be their only chance to save the world.

Release date: August 31, 2022

Publisher: Hachette Australia

Print pages: 384

Sample

Can’t trust friends.

Can’t trust counselling sessions.

Most importantly, can’t trust who this secret is forcing me to become. I trudge along the path to my high school admin block – thanks, Nan, for ruining my life with therapy.

‘Kooky Kirra,’ a classmate sniggers from behind. I stick to my usual plan: keep my head down and motor away. ‘Kook Kirra has no –’

‘She can’t be a kook,’ a male voice interrupts. ‘You seen her surf? She rips.’

I’m tempted to check who’s sticking up for me but then he adds, ‘Cracked Kirra works better – ’specially if she needs weekly therapy. My brother doesn’t go that much and he’s suicidal.’

‘Shut up, Shawn,’ the first voice says. ‘Suicide’s not funny. And you can’t surf for –’

‘Cursed Kirraahhh,’ booms down the path, and my foot Falcon hits the accelerator. Don’t want to cop another insult from the school’s loudmouth. Wish Mel hadn’t chucked a sickie; she would’ve given them a mouthful, spiced with a few F-bombs. My heartbeat increases with my pace, but Loudmouth’s words bail me up.

‘Whatever she touches is cursed. Her mum: dead. Brother: dead. And her father works in the mines to get away from her. Watch out, Granny, you’re the last one left.’

Loudmouth used to be my friend. Used to live across the street. Used to be puppy-eyed shy. I swing open the office door and launch inside, hoping to avoid her Rottweiler aggression. A waft of air-con collides with the clinging heat and cools the beads of sweat on my skin.

Squinting to stop the fake breeze from plastering my contacts to my eyeballs, I kinda freeze. The door shuts. I’m too late. Their insults flood in.

‘Cursed Kirra will get you killed!’

‘Careful,’ the kook-caller says, ‘she might put a blackfella curse on you.’

Loudmouth roars with laughter, ‘Nah, her granny was fostered by whites. I’d know more about her culture than she does.’

And I gulp back two hundred years of genocide and White Australia policy and Stolen Generations and every town’s segregation line marked by ‘Boundary Street’ and government law banning us from speaking language and practising culture, and a slippery, hollow truth that she’s probably right about Nan.

‘Truth!’ they snarl as if they’re mind readers, and a slap-slap-slap repeats as Loudmouth, no doubt, hi-fives her siccable bitch-pack. Their carry-on rings through the admin courtyard, then seeps under the office door. When their taunting ends, it somehow still haunts me.

The school administrator, with a phone pressed to her ear, swishes her hand for me to take a seat. I slouch into one in the corner away from the goldfish-bowl windows.

If my plan works, today’s session will be different: life-changing different. And if the truth can’t convince them, I’ll surrender to their lies.

The receptionist covers the end of her phone. ‘Kirra?’ A smile pops on her face like an emoji on a screen. ‘You can go in now.’

‘Thanks,’ I lie. I’m as thankful as a vegan winning a meat tray, but I keep my head down and scurry to the counselling room.

Mrs Furroway cradles a coffee cup. There’s nothing wrong with her (no warts or broomstick). She’s a clichéd career spinster: bottle-blonde hair shaped into a notone-strand-out-of-place bob, French-manicured nails, and smothers awkward silences with porcelain-veneered smiles.

‘Hello, Kirra. Please come in, close the door and have a seat.’

I slump onto a plastic chair opposite her ridiculously large desk. The air-con rattles, so does the wasp nest inside me. The stinging and swarming has begun.

‘Kirra, your hair looks lovely. Did you colour it?’ She places her mug down, thuds my file onto her desk (real old-school), and sports a synchronised-swimmer’s smile – perfectly held throughout her whole routine.

‘No, it’s always been brown.’

Nothing changes in my life: brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin. I stare at my hands, which can’t stop fidgeting. Well, lighter brown than Nan and Dad ’cos of Mum’s European genes, but I’m the brownest in this room.

Mrs F slurps coffee, and I can’t help smirking at the tacky lipstick smeared across her front teeth. I want to tell her but she’s slurping more coffee, adding red marks to the rim of her World’s Best Counsellor mug. Seriously?

Furroway opens my file, orders her wad of notes, then checks out my hair again.

‘I never wear it out,’ I blurt, as my fingers comb my knotted waves.

‘Ahh – that’s what it is. It suits you.’

I smooth the strands into a ponytail, secure a hairband ’round it and wait for Mrs F’s next predictable question: surf-related.

‘Did you see that surfer on the news with that horrible fin chop?’

There it is, I think, before I mutter three octaves below an old person’s hearing range, ‘He was a bodyboarder.’ Wanting her to feel as uncomfortable with small talk as I do, I add, ‘I’m surprised you know what a fin chop is – you seen one up close?’

‘Yes, yes, ghastly thing.’

She squirms through her reply at Melbourne-Cup-race-caller speed: ‘My brother had a terrible fin chop when he was about your age. I drove him to hospital. He had thirteen stitches across his forehead to the top of his head in the shape of a “C”. I’d tease him that the ocean had tattooed the first letter of his name on his head.’ She giggles – a kid’s laugh, not a woman who’s ready for retirement – then, between cackles, says, ‘He couldn’t grow hair there again.’

Never heard Furroway laugh. What is in that coffee? Never thought of her having a brother either, ’specially one that surfed. Figured Furroway was more of a loner surrounded by cats she’d rescued from hessian bags. Might’ve misjudged her.

‘Your brother still surf?’

‘Wouldn’t know,’ she replies, and switches into therapy mode with her well-enunciated words. ‘Let’s just say, people are not his forte.’

Another gulp of coffee and her pen’s in hand. It’s time for business: ‘How can I help today?’

I shift in my seat and hope Furroway, with her gaudy red lippy, can somehow help me. If I could talk to anyone else, I would. Tried talking to Nan six months ago, and this is where ‘truth’ got me. I have no-one else. Even Mel would bail, like everyone did when Great Nanna Clara was alive. If the world wasn’t gonna end, I wouldn’t be here. And I can’t go head-to-head with Nan about this again. Where would I live if she threw me out? Maybe I am cursed.

Furroway places her pen on her pile of notes. ‘Something on your mind, Kirra?’

‘No … well, actually yes. But you can’t tell anyone, ’specially not Nan, ’cos I promised I wouldn’t talk about it.’ Fear’s long icy fingers pincer-grip my vocal cords.

‘Kirra, anything you tell me is confidential.’ Another smile appears, muscle memory without emotion. ‘You have my word, it will not leave this room.’ Furroway waits, her face parked in ‘neutral’, except gravity – more like negativity – tugs on it.

Each awkward second expands the inevitable. And my secret is bursting every sensible seam in me. ‘Um … don’t know how to say this, so –’

My words accelerate, so does the bzz-i-zzing in my belly.

‘Remember you suggested I keep a dream journal because you thought it would help deal with …’

I can’t say it.

My eyes yo-yo between a stain in the carpet and her eager face. Minutes pass before Mrs F says, ‘Your brother.’

I slouch into the belly of the chair. ‘Thought I handled it pretty good for a six-year-old.’

‘Of course, Kirra. It’s not unusual for repressed emotion to manifest years later in other ways, like dreams. Tell me, has the journalling helped?’

I nod. Since I turned sixteen and these strange dreams began, Nan made me promise not to tell anyone the real reason for these weekly visits. And if my own grandmother won’t believe me, who will?

‘It’s helped me confirm my dreams come true. A few weeks ago, I told you about a dream with my friend, Mel – that red sports car and how I saved her. Well, it happened.’

‘Yes. But Kirra – remember we also talked about coincidences. And how our brains make sense of trauma. Take your dreams about your brother, Byron, for example.’

I wince at the mention of Wuz – no-one called him Byron – and veer back to the point. ‘I know you call them coincidences. What if they’re not?’

‘Okay, we’ll play the “what-ifs”. What if your dreams come true? Does it really matter? Does it change life as a sixteen-year-old?’

‘My latest one does,’ I fire back in a bulletproof tone.

‘Really? Please go on.’

‘It’s at Jellurgal Point.’

Mrs F scribbles ferociously, then power-clasps her long fingers. ‘Yes. What happens?’ Maybe this old croc isn’t so bad.

I force myself to relax by drawing a deep breath, the kind you take before you ditch your surfboard and dive under a massive, surging wave. ‘The world is destroyed. Everyone – everything – dies from a huge explosion.’

She probably thinks I don’t notice the extra blinks or the way her smile is held in place, like bookends at the end of her lips, but I do.

‘What exactly are you saying, Kirra?’

My throat is dry; the air feels stuffier than ever. ‘I think the world is going to end.’

The room is still. Uncomfortably still. Unnaturally still. And I’ve got fifty-one minutes to prove I’m not lying.

Furroway’s thin lips spasm. ‘You said, “I think the world is going to end.” What did you mean?’

Her ploy is obvious, a blind pimple could see it. She’s trying to trap me into talking more so she can twist my words, and prove I’m wrong. It’ll never work. Not when she’s emphasised ‘think’ that way. Like the wi-fi’s on but there’s no internet.

My diary proves my dreams come true. If I can make this know-it-all migalu believe me, there’s a small chance I could convince Nan as well.

I grab my dream diary from my bag and clutch it with both hands. ‘It’s all in here: three dreams, their dates and deliveries. It’s easier than explaining.’

After flicking to the page that proves my point, I pass my diary over. I’m exposed and alone, a joey thrown from its mother’s pouch.

The air-con rattles. Her office chair squeaks. Nothing can distract me from Furroway. She reads on in pokerfaced silence. I know exactly what she’s reading. Wrote it three days ago, when that dream woke me in a sweat-fest.

THREE DREAMS – DATES & DELIVERIES

1.Dream Date: 15 Nov. Dreamt Dad rings me to take me for a belated birthday brekkie. Pancakes. He works in the mines, never makes birthdays or Chrissy. Dad hasn’t taken me out for a meal, or eaten pancakes (that I know of), since Wuz’s funeral. He used to cook them for Wuz and me every Saturday.

Dream Delivery: 16 Nov. Woke from last night’s dream, rolled over to write it down, and there’s a text from Dad: he’s picking me up for brekkie at Pancakes in Palmy. We went. I drenched a fat stack of pancakes, fresh strawberries and coconut yogurt with maple syrup, but all I kept thinking was, Funny how silent meals are our new norm.

2.Dream Date: 11 March. Dreamt Mrs Drew screamed in pain. Then she stopped and the pain disappeared after she was stabbed in her left side.

Dream Delivery: 11 March (found out later when we had an art sub teacher because Mrs Drew was in hospital). Mrs Drew had her appendix removed that same night I had the dream. THE SAME NIGHT!

3.Dream Date: 13 April. Dreamt a flash red car drove up on the curb and hit Mel while she was waiting (with her surfboard under her arm) for the little green dude to light up so she could cross the Gold Coast Highway and go for a surf. Woke up, wrote it down.

Dream Delivery: 15 April. Met Mel for a surf two days later, and saw it playing out in real time like I’d dreamt. Except I pulled her away from the curb, and the reckless driver in the red convertible just missed us.

Finally, finally Furroway peers over her narrow frames. My mind’s racing with a million ways we can dissect this: the dreams are getting more serious, even dangerous. The delivery date is soon after I dream them. We’ll need to move quick if we want to save millions of lives, ’cos three days ago, I had the ‘Jellurgal Point world-ending’ dream, which means it could happen soon.

‘Kirra.’ Mrs F slides her glasses up the ridge of her nose, and it’s not a short trip. ‘First, I want to thank you for allowing me to read your very, very private diary. It’s extremely brave of you. But –’

Every muscle tightens.

‘– these diary entries don’t prove anything. As we previously discussed, they’re coincidences. Dreams are our mind’s way of dealing with emotion. Fear of death. Death is a common underlying symbol in many dreams, especially in your Aboriginal Dreaming stories.’

I tremor, cracks breaking my volcanic crust – my Aboriginal Dreaming stories – like there’s one Aboriginal tribe or culture, not hundreds. And she calls herself educated.

‘The brain is such an interesting piece of machinery, processing everyday life through dreams. Remember, this started with dreams of your brother.’

Mrs F blabbers on and on about an upcoming surf comp, a fundraising event at Jellurgal Point I should enter as a way of moving past my brother’s ‘accident’ – code for DEATH.

The hell? That’s where and probably when the world will end.

Furroway’s smug, stuck-up voice makes me wanna dive across her desk, snap her scribbling pen, and RIP that file into shreds. Then I’d take that mug, it’s about the size of her –

‘That symbol you’ve scribbled on your diary. Is it from one of your dreams? Or is –’

I lunge across the desk and snatch my diary out of her hands.

‘– Kirra, I was hoping to borrow that for a bit.’

‘No!’ My eyes duel with hers. ‘You can’t. I need it.’

‘Oh?’ Her lips pull tight like a cat’s butt, then her face relaxes. ‘Can you tell me about that symbol?’

This whole counselling routine is at a stand-still.

I shove the diary into my bag, and zip it tight. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs F, I mean Mrs Furroway, gotta see a teacher.’

She jumps to her feet. ‘Right now? Kirra, you’ve only been here sixteen minutes.’ She feigns disappointment.

I feign innocence. Ignoring her, I move towards the door. ‘Sorry, I have to go.’ I rush out of the room, but the red-lipped jabberer’s voice chases me into the corridor.

‘That’s very disappointing, Kirra.’

Really? I don’t give a flying kickflip.

‘This conversation isn’t over. We’ll discuss this and those drawings at our next session.’ Her voice singes the back of my neck, and I scurry off.

As soon as the final bell sounds, I speed away on my beach cruiser. Wish I could leave the Gold Coast – been here my whole life, and I’m tired of GC people and places. The wind’s blowing in my face, sunnies in place. I pump my legs hard. It’s easier today without my surfboard: the rack on the side of my bike is empty.

The world will end. And no-one will believe me. I throw my bike against the house; it clatters as it hits the wall. Who cares? It’s all gonna burn anyway. I push through the back door and charge towards my bedroom.

‘Kirra?’

Pretending I didn’t hear Nan, I march into my room and slam my door.

There are footsteps down the hall, then a knock. ‘Kirra, you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ I say, and hope she’ll leave me alone.

Nan pushes the door open, and I can tell by her stern brown eyes that we are in for a long chat whether I want to or not.

‘Why ya stompin’ and slammin’ doors?’

‘You wouldn’t understand.’ I open my bag, the diary tumbles to the floor.

‘Try me,’ Nan says, and taps an annoying beat with her shoe, which forces her grey curls to spring up and down.

‘You made me promise never to talk about it.’

‘Oh, yer still wild ’bout those dreams and counsellor stuff?’

I say nothing. I’m tempted to stand and make her look up at me, but I know better.

‘Kirra, ya don’t think that counsellor is helpin’ you?’

‘No.’

‘Why not? Don’t mind ya sayin’ “no” if you ’splain yerself.’

‘What’s the point of counselling?’ Session after session. Mind-numbing questions, robot responses. No real answers. No real progress. No real anything.

Nan shuffles closer. ‘I thought it was goin’ well.’ Her voice softens. ‘Ya told me it was helpin’. What changed?’

‘I can prove my dreams come true, but Furroway thinks it’s a coincidence.’

‘Kirra!’ She sucks in a breath, then smooths the creases on her dress with her palms, the calm before the storm. ‘Firstly, it’s Mrs Furroway. Secondly, you think yer dreams coming true is a good thing?’ Her voice picks up speed and intensity. ‘Believin’ dreams come true is far, far, far from the worst.’

I grab the diary and thump it on my bed. ‘This diary proves they do. The world’s gonna end, Nan. I dreamt it. At Jellurgal Point – that place is cursed.’

‘Kirra. No. I can’t.’ I’ve hit every nerve in her body, and centuries of therapy won’t fix this. ‘I won’t let you destroy your life like my mother did. You think you’re the first one to believe your dreams come true?’

My mouth is unable to move, let alone answer.

‘You’re not. Mum reckoned she received the “gift” when she turned sixteen. She ranted and raved ’bout the world ending. I ended up in foster care so she could get help. Well, Mum died twenty-four years ago, and the world never ended.’

So that’s why Great Nanna Clara was sent to that psychiatric hospital.

‘You wanna be like that?’ Nan’s hands move as fast as her lips. ‘You wanna live like that? I tried the nice way. Sent you to a counsellor. But now, this is worse than I thought.’ She holds out her hand. ‘Kirra. Give me your diary.’

I pass it to Nan.

‘No more dream diaries. No more talk of the world ending.’ Her volume dials down to an almost whisper. ‘Mrs Furroway phoned ’bout you running out in her session. You owe her an apology. She – we – believe you should surf in the comp at Jellurgal Point.’

Flippin’ Furroway. Wish she kept far away – far, far away. I take a few yoga breaths to shift the vibe. Nan points at a drawing on my new, white, six-foot surfboard leaning against my wall, which happens to be my first single fin … and swallowtail. ‘What’s that, Bub? It looks beautiful with the sun and the wave wrapped in that circle.’

‘It’s a symbol from my dream.’

Her expression hardens.

‘I drew it the other day after my dream.’ More like a nightmare. ‘Nan,’ I grab my board to convince her I’m telling the truth, ‘this symbol is linked to Jellurgal Point.’

‘Kirra.’ Nan’s eyes – if looks could really kill, there’d be a massacre.

‘The comp’s at Jellurgal Point. I don’t think I should surf there. My dreams –’

‘Stop … this is for yer own good.’ Her frown’s fading. ‘You’ll surf Jellurgal Point with that symbol on yer board.’ She heaves in a breath so loud, I’m not sure there’s any air left in the room. ‘Then when nothin’ happens, we can end this whole dream-come-true and world-gonna-end business forever.’

She’s waiting for my response. Wanting me to face Jellurgal Point, when she’s been a home-bod since Wuz died.

‘Okay, Nan. I’ll surf if you come watch. It’ll be good to see you at the beach again.’

What I wanna say is: If I have to face my nightmare, you should face your fear and leave the house – get out in our community. Catch up with your cousins and Elders, who’ve been asking you to join their beach walks, or take me to Yugambeh Choir and yarn with the aunties there.

‘Deal,’ she says, and patters down the hall.

I put my surfboard back, careful not to bang my shiny new baby, then collapse onto my pillow and grab my phone to check the date of the comp. Gunang! It’s next Saturday, a full moon. And if a full moon makes everyone wild, I’ll have no chance of ‘calm’.

What if Mrs F is right about our brains processing life through dreams?

The dream could explain how our family’s world ended at Jellurgal Point when Wuz died, while everyone else’s continued. Maybe that symbol, a barrelling wave and a sun made from a ‘meeting place’ sign, is Wuz’s last barrel, and it’s trapping me in the past. I need to let him go.

Guess I’m surfing Jellurgal Point.

Tarni is frustrating. Life used to be simple. We’d hang. Talk. Laugh.

Now, it’s different.

It doesn’t matter what I say or do, it’s wrong. And always my fault. As a jarjum, I’d notice the things she disliked, then make sure I didn’t do any of them.

Now we’re fully grown, but lately, another day is another argument pushing us further apart.

A butcherbird’s on the roof of our ngumbin. It calls, pauses, and calls again. My father, Birrabunji, doesn’t stir, and every now and again, a mangled whistle escapes from him. Songbirds, near and far, tell me to get moving because the sun’s outstretched arms have burst through our charcoal ocean. I slip past Dad, grab my gear and wander to the water’s edge. I’m at my favourite bay below the headland where our dolphin friends visit. The light seeps into our sea-bound land, and I skim the surface for signs of their movement.

The pod swims past. No acrobatic show this morning; it’s all business as they chase fish further up the coast. I check the dorsal fins hitting the dark blue surface for the pointiest one. Is she here with her baby? I puff out a long breath, not realising I was holding it. Spinner and her calf are alive and well.

Yesterday, I dived my deepest by carrying heavy rocks and saw an underwater sea cave. Today’s conditions make it easier to explore. The swell has dropped. North winds have stopped overnight, and the bay is a lake.

I swim to where the headland dips beneath the sea. Filling my chest with air, I dive down, reminding myself that calmness will make the air last longer. I swim towards the sea floor, grabbing the large thick columns of rock that form the base of the headland. When these columns were melded together in the beginning of time, little pockets and uneven shelves were formed. I grab a large rock I’d stashed on one of these ledges yesterday and squeeze it to my chest. Relaxing my mind and body, pretending I will never need air again, I descend deeper and deeper. Dropping the boulder as I reach the cave’s mouth, I push with both arms and legs, frog-swimming through its jagged entrance.

I should turn back.

I’m running out of air, but there’s a shaft of light in the darkness. I ignore my doubts and use the last of my breath to push through.

No air. NO AIR.

I swim up, up, up.

Following the light, I break the surface and flop onto a rock ledge, gasping, heaving in each lungful of air … until my breathing evens out. I’m in a small cave above the tideline with a narrow beam of light seeping into it. It’s low tide so there’s enough time to recover ’til I make the dive back, and before my dad worries that this latest obsession will distract me from my never-ending responsibilities.

As the ray of light brightens, faint markings appear on the cave walls. My fingers trace over them.

‘What is it?’ My question bounces off the cave walls.

I crouch to the height of the etchings.

Something else is scrawled into the rock. It’s vaguely familiar. Dad’ll know.

A new-found energy surges through my muscles, as I dive deep down and out of the darkness. I swim to the surface, then to the shore, with so many exploding thoughts.

Dripping with excitement, I run home to tell Birrabunji about my discovery.

‘Dad.’

There’s a gleam in his eyes. ‘Narn. Didn’t expect you back so soon or happy this time of morning. What happened to helping Aunty at first light? You said you’d do it yesterday, the day before yesterday, and the day before that.’

I’ve no time for his playful teasing or feeling guilty about another broken promise. ‘I found a sea cave. There’s a strange –’

‘Not here, son.’ Birrabunji grabs my arm. ‘Let’s go to the headland, where unwanted ears aren’t listening.’

Is that fear in his eyes? I’ve never seen it there before.

We head over the dunes. I grab some nyulli – a creeper-like plant with bright pink flowers – squeeze the sweet-salty fruit out of its succulent maroon pod and munch on it. Following close behind Birrabunji, I worry about his reaction.

We walk in silence past a large flock of silver gulls. They’re sitting on the dark-coloured rocks halfway up the headland. We clamber to the top, a special place for us, and stare at the shimmering sea.

I can’t wait any longer. ‘There’s a sea cave below the headland.’

His eyes snap from the ocean to mine. ‘That’s a sacred place. A secret place. A place not just for anyone.’

I ignore his reprimand. ‘In that cave are symbols.’

Birrabunji raises his voice. ‘Narn. Stop.’ The force of it vibrates through the air and the flock of gulls squawk and fly away.

My thoughts stop. My heart does too. I’m shocked into obedience.

Dad grabs my shoulder. His eyes puncture mine. ‘Vow to me, under our lore, what I tell you will never be brought up again. Not now. Not ever. Listen, son. Really listen. This may be the only thing that will save you.’

My heart speeds up like two boomerangs clapping together, faster and faster as the dancing ceremony comes to an end. I’m more afraid than when I faced my first shark.

I grip Dad’s shoulder. ‘I promise, Dad. Under our lore, you have my vow.’

Dad taught me how to listen. Listen to understand. No discussions. No debates. No disobedience. There is time for questions and time for silence. And I understand what I need to do. A vow cannot be broken. If it is, you get speared in the leg by the men of the clan led by our hunter-Elder, and the last thing I want is to be speared by Minjarra, the fiercest hunter in these parts.

Dad squeezes my shoulder tighter. ‘Our vow is a lore between us until death,’ he says.

This is serious business. Life and death business. Business that scars me with more unanswered questions.

We face the sea and sit side by side.

‘That symbol you saw in the cave is N’gian’s.’

‘N’gian?’ I mumble.

He nods. ‘He’s known to work magic – proper powerful and respected by all.’

‘Must be good to be N’gian … be liked by everybody,’ I mutter.

‘Being liked means nothing. Respect is balanced with responsibility – comes when love and courage help you choose to do the right thing. And be willing to put in the effort and be trusted.’ He points to a nearby bush. ‘Like that midyim we planted.’

Dad doesn’t get it: he’s never been mocked or called empt. . .