I remember our first night everywhere cos Māmā always takes us somewhere special to tell us about the whakapapa of a place. She says knowing our history helps us to know ourselves. Our whanau is always on the move.
It had been the wettest week since records began. Three streets away the river threatened to break its banks and, around midnight, it did. Several cars were submerged to the tops of their wheel arches, and a silver Mazda bobbed away like a bath toy.
Her skin is raw and pink, fleshy-soft like the fat chicken fillets my mother brings home from the butcher’s that I poke through the plastic bag. I reach out into the darkness of the garage and stroke the tips of my fingers along the back of the girl’s neck.