The Dry Season

The rig shuddered as Burke Calloway pulled the drill string up from one hundred seventy-eight meters. Red mud spattered across his boots, the same color as the dirt that stretched to every horizon on Mikkelsen Station. He'd been drilling for three days straight, and the bit should have been cold when it surfaced.

It came up warm.

Burke touched the steel casing with his bare hand, then jerked back. Hot enough to sting. He glanced at the mud return—diesel smell mixing with something else, something organic that made his throat close. The sample tray caught the slurry, and he bent close, squinting against the afternoon glare.

Limestone fragments. Smooth on one side, almost polished.

"That's not right." He said it to himself, a habit from years of working alone. His right hand found his wedding ring, twisting it once, twice. The band was loose now. Had been for months.

Behind him, boots crunched on gravel. Burke turned, his good ear toward the sound. A woman stood twenty meters away, angular and pale despite the Northern Territory sun. Her blonde hair was pulled back so tight it looked painful.

"Ms. Mikkelsen." Burke wiped his hands on his jeans. "Didn't hear you coming."

"Freya." She didn't move closer. Her hands were shaking, he noticed, fingers curling and uncurling at her sides. "Is there a problem?"

"Hit something at one-eighty. Cavity, maybe." He gestured at the rig. "Temperature's wrong. Shouldn't be warm this deep, not in sandstone."

Freya's right hand went to her nose, touched it briefly. "Can you drill through it?"

"Need to run some tests first. Check the—"

"I'm paying you to drill, Mr. Calloway. Not to test." Her voice was flat, but her hands kept shaking. "The cattle need water. I need water."

Burke studied her. She stood with her weight shifted back, like she might bolt at any moment. Behind her, the homestead squatted low and weathered, tin roof glinting in the heat. No other buildings visible for three hundred kilometers in any direction.