‘He’s in trouble,’ Sunday said determinedly. He heard the river, the sighing of leaves in acacia trees, drowsy with the endless oven-like heat. Geoffrey kept a firm grip on the wooden aeroplane he was carrying. They stood on a rectangular rock, paces from the river that still ran fast and muddy. She was two years older than Geoffrey, and tall for her age. Sunday sighed and placed a hand on her brother’s shoulder. ‘I still can’t hear anyone,’ Geoffrey said. It was there that they came upon the death machine. After weeks of bored confinement they were at last allowed to wander from the household, beyond the gardens and the outer walls, into the wild. The ground had borrowed moisture from the clouds now the sky claimed its debt in endless hot, dry days.
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