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Sick to my stomach, I drag my gaze back to the land and steady myself before Dav and I split up. He knows the farm and the one next door.

He runs for every gate he can reach, loosing the sheep and cattle bunched there.

I sprint to the diesel tanks, twist the shut-off valves and kill the pumps, in motion again without stopping to see if it works.

In the utility shed, I shove the main isolator down, cutting power to the whole farm. Close the valves on the propane tanks and lock them in.

Then I run back to the yard.

Protect the house.

I can’t. There’s no time.

Dav is already there, wrestling sleepy hens into crates, a random ginger cat hanging over his shoulder as though it’s always been there.

Has it?

I don’t know, and despite everything, I almost smile. But Dav catches my eye and jerks his chin at the fields. I turn and fresh horror rises in my chest.

I’ve seen field fires before. Every farmer has. Hungry little demons burning through bush until they run out of fuel.

This is different.

This is a monster. Flames higher than the hedgerows, driven sideways by the wind, devouring dry crops and grass that haven’t seen proper rain in weeks.

Heat rolls across the land, tightening the skin on my face. The fire isn’t slowing and it isn’t going to. Not until there’s nothing left to burn.

Do something.

My gaze finds the tractors of its own accord.

Firebreaks.

I’ve never seen a blaze like this, but I know how to save a crop from flames.

I’m running again.

Dav catches me, trying to pull me back.

His lips form one word.

No.

But I’m stronger than him and I break free, pointing at the truck as I dart away from him. “Go. Now. I’ll follow you.”

Dav argues, but I don’t follow the shape of his lips. I don’t even try.

I jab a thumb at the road.

Go.

He doesn’t like it, but getting the animals to safety weighs heavy on him.

Dav runs for the truck and slides behind the wheel. For one last second, he stares back at me through the open window. Then he peels out of the yard and I’m alone against the looming wall of flame.

I run for the tractors and hook my hand around Edna’s familiar grab rail. Iggy’s John Deere is ten feet closer, bigger and faster, with the same cultivator fitted to the back, but I turn away from it. Edna has been with me my whole adult life. Every dent and quirk lives in my hands. If I’m going to ask a machine to stand between this land and a wall of fire, I’m asking her.

The keys are in the ignition.