Australian Bush.

Sensitive mentions divorce.

Echo's name was a cruel joke. Her smile, though wide and generous, never quite reached her eyes. She didn't have the energy, nor did she try to hide herself completely. Instead, she was smart; she offered them glimpses: the tight muscles in her neck, the sallowness of her skin in direct sunlight, the crushed t-shirts with faded stains, the patched jeans. It was her simple trick to avoid fools - an open invitation for the shallow, the preoccupied, and the selfish to escape.

"Mummy," ​Echo responded to her son's outstretched hands and plea. She lifted him and balanced him on her hip. John, her partner's prospective client, had no interest in her smile or her visible vulnerability. Instead, his gaze lingered on her as if smelling her perfume, his eyes rolling down her long, silky, brown hair to trace the curve of her occupied hip.

​Echo didn't notice John, but James did. A look of disapproval hardened his face. He motioned John forward and distracted him by pointing towards the business prospect with an extended hand. "Well mate, now isn't this THE real beauty there? A fine little sawmill - the best this little town has to offer!" James swung around and quickly yanked a pegged flannel shirt off the makeshift wooden clothesline and flung it at Echo. "You might catch a death of a cold, dear," he said sternly. John turned to see Echo catch the shirt. He readjusted his Akubra hat, embarassed his admiring Echo had been caught, whilst wondering if James was a jealous man but chose to stay out of it.

Echo knew something just happened: Was she to blame? Her thoughts petrified her: Would James blame her if the client walked? Maybe she should have dressed better? Should she have tied back her hair?

She became doe-eyed. She froze like a weeping statue of the Madonna until the men's voices were lost in the distance.

*

The rusty caravan sat low, propped up on sturdy bricks. The sun poured down, casting a warm and welcoming glow over Echo as she gingerly gathered and folded the laundry into a wicker basket. Timmy drove his metal trucks through the dirt, "Brmm Brmm," he boomed. She knelt to wipe his nose, but he ran off, arms outstretched like an aeroplane. "You have so much energy, Ratsy," she laughed, a name he'd earned after needing at least three changes of clothes a day. Like a rat's nest, his small bunk in the caravan was framed with a duvet, soft toys, and a crochet blanket, surrounded by torn pictures of animals, birds, and plants he'd found in magazines and had Mummy help stick to the wall.

​The fresh scent of soap still hung in the air as Timmy finished the last of his Vegemite and cheese sandwich, then clumsily peeled a banana and squashed it into his mouth. Echo surveyed her handiwork with a weary sense of satisfaction. The sink and table gleamed, the dishes washed, dried, and stacked. The beds were made with fresh linen and tight corners, and the floors swept and mopped. The outdoor plants near the stairs were watered, and the barbecue plate scrubbed clean. Exhaustion weighed on her. She opened the fridge—the milk carton was nearly empty, and only one egg remained. She exclaimed, "Oh no! How can I make a quiche for supper?" She had just plain forgotten.

Echo pushed the cafe curtains aside and looked out at the empty parking lot. A cold dread washed over her. His car was gone. She wiggled open the kitchen drawer and confirmed, "Yep, he’s taken the office keys too!"

​Pacing the floor, she fretted about only serving spaghetti on toast to John and James. How could she have been so dumb? Glancing up at the clock on top of the fridge, she saw it was 14:03. Timmy flew over the stairs, "Kapow!" Echo's gaze followed him, she knew he still had plenty of beans. She estimated it would be a two-hour walk to the store and back, maybe longer with Timmy in tow. Although she could leave the caravan, the thought of a two-plus-hour walk with a small child—especially if she had to carry him part of the way, as he missed his nap, along with groceries—felt overwhelming.

​Something, like a shift, or sense, pulled her attention back to the parted curtains, to the bush with a small, cleared entrance. She had walked that path before, but not very far and never with Timmy. It always made her feel uneasy, yet the temptation to go the twenty-minute shortcut was strong temptation.

*

Timmy, stay on the path," Echo cautioned. Towering gum trees filtered the sun, creating a quiet, shifting light. Drawn by a small purple wildflower, Timmy strayed to the left. He bent down to pick it. Echo's stomach clenched. "Why was she feeling like this?" she thought, normally she was delighted with her son's curiosity - she shouldn't have taken the shortcut. A wren flickering vibrant blue, zipped along the vine above Timmy. Its song, a sharp, joyful trill, did not stop heaviness pushing into her chest." She tried to fight it, "Look, Timmy, a bluebird!" she gestured, forcing a smile. "Isn't it sweet?" Timmy with flower in hand started to chase the bird.

Echo raced after her son, calling, "Timmy! Timmy, come back!" The laughter of the kookaburras, however, drowned her out. Unconcerned, Timmy covered his ears and mimicked their laugh: "Ohh, ohh, ahh, ah, ahhhh." The afternoon sun was warm enough for snakes to be slithering through the long grass, which quickened Echo’s pace. "Come here now," she said, scooping him up and carrying him back to the path. "You must be careful of snakes, Timmy. They live in places like those."

​Back on the path, Echo's shoulders visibly relaxed. The day had gotten to her, but here, the path started to feel safe, and the trees—weren't they truly beautiful? The cicadas serenaded them with their relentless chirping as Timmy, holding his mother's hand, spied a cicada shell clinging to the rugged bark of a tree.

​“Mummy, what’s that?” he asked, pointing with a small finger. Echo pulled the shell off the tree. "It's their old coat," she said. Timmy touched it with curiosity. "It's sharp. Can I keep it for my treasure box?" Echo smiled. "Sure," she replied, placing the delicate shell in a plastic container in her knapsack.

Echo lifted Timmy into her arms, carefully balancing him as she began to cross a shallow creek. The clear water gently flowed around the soles of her sneakers, and the smooth stones rolled and clinked beneath her feet with every step. The cold water began to seep into Echo's socks, as a light breeze picked up, bringing a small joy to the air, flinging her hair as bringing to her lips a song for Timmy. “Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques, dormez-vous?” Timmy sang along, not quite getting the words right but doing his best, giggling back at her.

Suddenly, the wind grew fierce. Echo recognized this part of her story: a moment of joy, always brief and invariably followed by fear and loss. The wind howled like her Mother, as leaves rolled she saw her Father leaving. Echo stopped singing, the chill ran down her spine when she noticed the clouds thickening, the same way they did when she moved house, changed schools again and again. In the gaps of the canopy was it a storm? In late winter? Her sun had been swallowed and darkened. Like an eclipse, the cheerful chirping of birds and the relentless buzz of cicadas ceased. Timmy’s small hand gripped Echo’s, and she instinctively cradled him close as water started to fill her shoes.

​A sudden crack shattered the stillness, and Echo's head snapped around. Her body froze. A low thud, followed by heavy, hurried steps, crushed the grass in the distance. A tumult of wings erupted into a loud squawk, then fell to a terrifying silence. The air grew thick with a guttural growl and the sound of labored breathing. The sickening crunch of bones and feathers followed.

​Timmy's horrified gaze over Echo's shoulder pulled her back to reality. The jaws sounded impossibly big and strong, far bigger than a dingo or a fox. A black panther, her mind screamed, even though she knew they didn't live in Australia. "It doesn't matter what it is!" The command was a jolt of pure, instinctual panic. "Just run!"

​Trembling, she clutched Timmy to her chest and began to move. Each heavy, awkward step across the rocky creek bed echoed, threatening to twist her ankles. She bit down on her lip. "Please, Divine Mother, help us," she prayed, imagining a protective white light encircling them. Echo covered Timmy's mouth, horrified to hear his tiny whimpers. He’s no smaller than that large fowl was, she thought, her voice shaking as she whispered, "Shh, be a mouse, Timmy." Hot tears streamed down his face, and she screamed soundlessly inside.

​Her heart pounded painfully as she finally reached the path. Her soggy shoes, however, weighed her down, their loud, wet squish a glaring betrayal of their location. It will hear us, she thought. She kicked one shoe off, then the other. Her bare feet stung on the sharp stones and thorns, but she didn’t care. She ran with Timmy, past the tangled vines, past the tall trees, past the long grass, toward the single, glorious beam of light where the trees ended. She ran and ran and ran, no longer hearing the running feet, the panting, or the growling—just the sound of her own desperate breath.

​The sight of the caravan and Daddy's car made a sob of relief escape her lips. "James! A black panther!" she screamed into the afternoon air.

​John was already running to his truck, pulling out his double-barrel shotgun. "Into the caravan and lock the door!" James ordered, grabbing his phone. The speaker crackled and introduction wavered, "National Parks, how can I help you?" a voice asked.

​"It's back," James yelled.

"Sir, what is back?" the voice asked patiently.

"The panther - the black panther - back from the Blue Mountains - " Unable to stop himself. "The American's World War II mascot that got away. It's back! I tell ya it's back!"