Storm over Musgraves

I knew this wind meant business, dangerous business. I rushed to Dad and told him the whole story—the wind, the sparks, the wild fire, and my little blue bowl.
‘What campfire?’ Dad smacked his lips, yawned and turned over.

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The T-Team With Mr. B (33)

We heard a blood-curdling scream.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Rick, I hope he’s alright.’
We scrambled down the last of the gully and ran along the ridge in the direction of Rick’s cries.

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The T-Team With Mr B (10)

And Rick complained, ‘Would you mind not coughing all over the place?’
‘I can’t help it,’ I wheezed. ‘I need some fresh air.’
Matt held his throat and rasped, ‘I can’t breathe.’
Mr. B glanced back at his son. ‘What’s that, boy?’
‘I can’t breathe,’ his son said.

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The T-Team With Mr B (3)

Mr. B had a sour expression on his face as he sipped his porridge. He finished a mouthful and then remarked, ‘I dare say, ol’ chap, what’s all this running around?’
‘I want us to get to Ernabella today,’ Dad said.
‘Can’t we just take it easy? I’m still adjusting to the inferior sleeping arrangements.’ Mr. B massaged his back as if emphasising the pains that he endured.

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Ernabella

I clutched my stomach. ‘Dad, I’m hungry.’
‘Later,’ he promised.
However, later produced no food. My famished state evolved into near starvation.
‘Dad!’ I moaned. ‘I’m hungry!’
‘Not just yet.’ Dad hurried up the main road.
Shuffling behind him, I muttered, ‘If you won’t, I’ll get it myself.’

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