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In 1909 she was at Gray Brother’s pier, Adventure Bay and loading timber for Adelaide when an easterly gale sprung up.

The hint of strength around her mouth was not quite so evident perhaps. But now the Running was almost a public holiday in Dallas, just as it was in San Diego and Nagasaki.

Amber Riley’s husband had promised that he would come home to her no matter what, so after they reported him dead she began to keep the shotgun next to the front door.

The day he returned, ambling, shambling, reeking of decay, the dog barked once in warning and went to hide under the back porch.

Amber dried her hands on a dish towel and went to look at her husband through the screen. (Not “brains.”) She ran a finger down the barrel of the shotgun, propped beside her.

“Thank you for coming.” Read more: HTML The lake was alive with lights — the lanterns on the boats, golden and round, like hundreds of miniature suns, and the moon, so heavy on the horizon that it was difficult to believe that it would be able to climb any higher in the sky.

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