A morning chill laces the air. Laila tightens her jacket. The pelican is now far away, paddling downstream, leaving behind a ribbon of the vaguest white. She follows the line of the Murray into the distance. Ahead it turns and the land makes a sudden stark outline against the disappearing glint of the water. She feels a pull, as if the river is taking her along with it, and at once remembers: that was what the Rejang River used to do to her.
