She was beginning to think she’d never be dry again. The rain had steadily increased over the past few hours. Lightning continued to flash in the west, the echo of thunder coming at quicker and quicker responses. If she didn’t find cover soon, she’d be caught out in the middle of nowhere in a lightning storm. The wagon ruts she’d been following for miles and the whole afternoon and evening had long since filled in with water, but she didn’t panic because in the distance flickered squares of light. Parramatta. An image of twenty-first century Las Vegas threw itself against her mind. Las Vegas. Yes. Mitchell Oliver’s letter had mentioned that city. And yes, she’d been born there. She knew it now the way she knew her own name. She’d been a true child of that place, “born from its sins,” a woman’s cigarette-scratchy voice had told her time and time again. And Sera had believed her for a very, very long while. But those lights in the distance didn’t come from neon or TVs or car headlights.
