He is rolling right under the fence at the battery when the beast pushes from the dark green world beyond the boundary fence. She puts me down and we both turn, silently frantic, wishing Dad to be safe. I stumble and then Mum is there, scooping me up like I weigh nothing and ducking back through the narrow yard gate. For a moment his heart thuds against my ear as he holds me to his side, and then he dumps me on the ground. He slides down, ignoring the ladder, wincing as the Trice’s rough hide scrapes his back. He moves so fast he is up the knotted ladder and grabbing me from my saddle before I even really register the roaring. Then Dad curses and slips down from Cranky’s back. I shriek and scrabble at her knobbly scales. I try, but the Trice tosses her head up, snorting, and then gives a little buck. “Keep her steady!” he says then, a sudden edge to his voice. “We made it hot, honey.” Dad wipes his face. Mikey can side-eye my lines all he wants, he won’t do any straighter. The black earth is turned over in long furrows that fill the air with a rich, dark smell, lines that go all the way up to the huge tangle of forest that marks the end of the reclaimed land. “Your lines are good.” Dad’s praise makes me feel pretty good. “Old man Johnson says they used to use machines to do this,” I say. I hold on to the reins loosely, like Dad keeps saying, but it’s hard. The dopey old thing is almost blind, and happy to just plod along next to the harnessed Trice.

“Keep her steady.” Dad is on Cranky the Anky, borrowed from Old Johnson for the afternoon.

He went by high on the back of their old Steg, wedged between its back plates and looking all serious, even though I knew he was side-eyeing me the whole time. I’ve been at Dad to let me plough since I saw Mikey next door riding. I don’t need to look back at the house to know Mum will be watching, her hands gripping the yard fence too tightly. I grab at the rough scales, my hands slick with sweat, and I try to sit up straight. I sway in my saddle and of course it is right then that I almost fall. “You are doing well.” He wipes sweat from his face and smiles across at me. He says that a long time ago it was different.

Dad says they grow like that because of the heat. The trees are so big, so dark and mossy and quiet-it’s scary. It is cooler up at the other end of the field under the shade of the big trees, but I still prefer it down this end, in the heat.

Trapped in the R.A.W. by Kate Boyes