CLAIRE DRAGS A finger down the booking sheet. Her boss has circled the name in blue biro, which she knows means very important. Besides it, she has scribbled ‘Okay to bring dog’, which is strange because her boss doesn’t like pets this close to the marine reserve. The restaurant, Crabs, brushes up against it, and on humid nights like this one the mangroves felt like they were creeping closer. Claire scratches her arm; a familiar rash has started to crawl towards her elbow.

Benson. The party’s name sounds familiar but her memory feels murky after an afternoon spent studying for her marine biology exams. Before that was her internship at the Department of Fisheries, navigating the cells of an endless Excel spreadsheet. And, of course, she’d been awake since dawn to snag the best mud crabs at the seafood market.