Karri Major was covered in the red dust Mack had seen flying in. She was dressed in cargo pants and a vest with an awful lot of pockets. Webbing straps hung from various places holding various instruments: small hammer, steel file, a soft brush, a camera, a flashlight.
“So you’re the boy from the sky,” Karri said. She looked at Mack with something like awe—like she was gazing upon a miracle or meeting the Dalai Lama.
“Come on then,” she said, and gave him a sort of shoulder bump that seemed a bit weird coming from an adult.
Mack said, “Yes, ma’am,” mostly because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
They went to the parking lot, where Karri led the way to a sort of dune buggy. It was yellow, but so covered in red dirt that no more than six square inches of paint was actually visible. It looked like it had been made out of an SUV but with a platform on the back and a winch on the front and big, oversized tires. A rack of spotlights perched on top.
The buggy made a very satisfying roar.
They drove peacefully from the airport out into the desert, windows down. After just a few minutes Karri pulled off the highway onto a dirt road. She stopped the car and climbed out.
“I have work to catch up on,” Karri explained. She pulled a rugged laptop from a rucksack and traded places with Jarrah. Jarrah sat behind the steering wheel, which was on the wrong side, the right side, the Australian side.
Mack assumed they would be sitting there for a while. But then Jarrah turned the key, turned to look over her shoulder, and winked at Mack. “Hold on, mate; this gets a bit bumpy.”
“Wait. You’re driving?” Mack asked in a voice he hoped didn’t sound too terrified.
“No worries,” Karri said. “Jarrah’s been driving in the bush for years. Ever since she was nine.”
“Yeah, no worries,” Jarrah said.
Then she shoved the shift knob forward and stomped on the gas. The buggy roared and shot down the dirt road. It took off like some giant had kicked it.
“A bit bumpy” was an understatement. Mack felt like he’d been dumped into a blender set on “vibrate to death.”
The dirt road was edged by occasional bushes that smacked the sides of the buggy as it went past. A cloud of dust billowed behind them.
“H-h-h-o-o-o-w-w-w-w f-f-f-a-a-a-r-r-r i-i-i-s-s-s i-i-t-t?” Mack asked. It was hard to talk without unclenching his teeth, and when he unclenched his teeth they vibrated so hard he thought he might break one.
“Not far,” Jarrah said. For some reason she didn’t seem to vibrate quite as much. “Not far” came out as “Naw faa.”
Jarrah grinned, raised her eyebrows, and sent the buggy flying, absolutely airborne, off a red dune. They landed with a spine-shortening crunch amid scruffy bushes and kept right on going.
“Look!” Stefan shouted. He grabbed Mack’s shoulder and squeezed.
Mack looked. There, off to the left side, two kangaroos were speeding along, bounding on their giant hind legs as if they were racing the buggy.
In spite of the pounding he was taking, Mack smiled. All right: kangaroos. How cool was that?
“Can we pull over?” Stefan asked.
“You want to take a picture?” Jarrah asked.
“No. I want to box them,” Stefan said.
Jarrah looked at Mack in the rearview mirror and smiled broadly. “I like your bully.”
She kept driving at breakneck speed, and the kangaroos fell behind. But suddenly she stopped. She turned off the car engine and popped open the door.
“Why are we stopping?” Mack asked.
“Because you should see this,” Jarrah said. “It’s where we’re going. It’s why you didn’t just drown out in the deep blue sea. It’s Uluru, mates—Uluru.”
* * *
DEAR MACK,