Wind and sun hollowed the flesh until there was nothing left except bark and bone. A year later and there I was, a growing child, holding its flaking skull in my hands, my treasure. Cold damp air formed a mist that kept my parents out of view as I ran back to the house, placing the skull on the concrete step. This was a way out place. I don’t remember how we got there, or why, it wasn’t a house for a holiday but it was made for escape. I remember my hair tied in knots over my head, held in place with strips of fabric ripped from an old pillowcase. I remember the bat above my bed. I remember the kangaroo skull. I remember burning my fingers holding its tooth over a candle.