“Christ! Is that a dingo?” The words
struck the silence like the sudden snapping of bone—fierce, choked, and
desperate.
The
shape twisted its head in our direction and moved its ears.
We
both cursed the shadow, backing toward the sea as Tom brandished the steel rod—the dingo stick—he’d been caring,
slapping the ground with it. “Get to my left, you’re unarmed!” He screamed at
me, jabbing the air.
The
dingo sat there, motionless in the sand.
“You fucking bitch!”
“You whore!”
We
rebuked it with profanities in the stillness beneath the stars. The Milky Way
is a dairy spill over our heads, slathering the sky into a beautiful buttered
blue.
Tom
is shaking, I’m wide-eyed—the dingo looks
at us.
“Christ!”
It
scratches itself and didn’t even bother to stand.
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