
Have you ever walked along the beach, picked up a shell, and wondered what its name was?
Ava did. She was nine, nearly ten, and she had a bucket that was supposed to be for water but had somehow become a shell museum instead. Her Pop walked beside her, hands behind his back, hat low against the late morning glare.
"Mollusca," he said, as if he were announcing a cricket score. "That's the big family. Soft body, no spine, and usually a shell for a house."
They were on Queens Beach South at Redcliffe, where the tide goes out a long, long way in mid-winter. The sand here wasn't the soft silt of the bay's western shores. It was gritty underfoot, coarse and pale, and further out near the waterline the ground turned stony, dark red rock showing through the wet sand in patches, like something buried and trying to surface.
















Ava stepped off the foreshore and into the hush of the mangrove forest, where the world felt half land, half sea, and entirely magic.
