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trucks.
    â€œYou didn’t get very far with Pi,” I say.
    â€œYou guys are too good for me,” Annabel says with a wry smile. Sucking air through her teeth, she flexes her right leg.
    â€œIs it broken?” Bill asks.
    â€œI don’t think so,” Annabel replies. “It was bent under me with my weight and all that sand on top of it. I think it’s just bruised or strained.”
    â€œThat was a stupid thing to do,” Bill says, but his voice has no anger in it.
    â€œI know,” Annabel says with a smile, “but look what I found.” She holds out her left hand. Nestled in the palm is a plain, softball-sized clay pot. “This is what I saw beside the black timber. It looked different, so I went down to get it.”
    She hands the pot to Bill, who turns it over and examines it thoughtfully. “It’s old. No doubt about that.” The pot is cracked but looks as if it’s held together by some kind of rust and there’s sand encrusted over much of it. I peer into the mouth, but it’s only more rust and sand.
    â€œDo you think it’s from the Mahogany Ship?” I ask.
    â€œCould be,” Bill says.
    â€œYou okay?” We look up to see Kelly heading toward us.
    â€œYeah, we’re fine,” Bill replies, slipping the pot into his pocket.
    â€œWhat was it she went tearing down there to find?” Kelly asks.
    â€œThat’s the last thing on my mind right now,” Bill replies.
    â€œAnyway, you got out just in time. The walls are collapsing fast. It’ll be awhile before we see the Mahogany Ship again. At least we’ve proved it’s here.”
    â€œMaybe,” Bill says, standing up. “But it’s more important to get Annabel to the hospital.”
    I lean on my left hand to stand up and collapse with a cry of pain. My middle fingernail is gone, and the end of the finger is raw and bloody. And there’s a gash on the ball of my thumb where the broken end of the wood has cut me. It doesn’t appear to be bleeding, but that’s probably only because the wound is packed with sand.
    â€œLooks like you need to get to the hospital as well,” Bill says. He helps me up and the three of us stumble toward the truck. “I’m going to call Heritage Victoria and tell them about the find,” Bill shouts back to Kelly. “Don’t do anything dumb while I’m gone.”
    Kelly doesn’t reply. Bill loads our bikes into the back of the truck, and we climb into the cab. As we head out of the parking lot, I see Percy and his master in the distance, heading along the path toward town. They must really love walking—it’s a good two or three miles back to the edge of town.
    As Bill drives, Annabel leans against my shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispers. I’m filthy, I ache all over, and my hand is torn and bleeding, but I’m happier than I’ve been in months.

Chapter Seven
    â€œYou are extremely lucky. Sand is basically moving rock, and it’s just as heavy. Every year, kids die because they dig tunnels in sand and it collapses on them. If it wasn’t for the quick response of your friends, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” The doctor is looking at Annabel, who is propped up in a bed in the emergency department of the Warrnambool hospital. She’s been cleaned up, examined, x-rayed and declared fit. She’ll have a limp for a few days from the bruising to her leg and sore ribs from breathing against the weight of sand, but nothing is broken.
    While Annabel was being tested and prodded, another doctor cleaned and stitched the cut on my hand and bandaged my finger where the nail used to be. Bill went off to make phone calls.
    â€œJust take some Ibuprofen for the pain and you’ll be good in a day or two. And don’t do anything that dumb again.” The doctor smiles, flips the curtain back and leaves.
    â€œThank you,” Annabel