“Oi! Feet off,” Frankie said, swatting at Nick’s leg.

He begrudgingly pulled his feet off the coffee table and back on the floor. “I’m not going to tell her so who’s going to know.”

Frankie shook her and tried not to smirk. “She’s gonna know. She knew that time you ruined one of the good towel and replaced it with a new one before she got home.”

“Lucky guess,” he waved her off.

“You’re the one who said she’s got a sixth sense. She’ll probably be able to smell your stinky socks or something.”

Nick laughed, “that’s not a sixth sense, that’s just having a nose.”

“Well, on your head I guess.”

In the laundry, the back door blew shut with a solid bang, rattling the kitchen window.

Nick took a sip of his tea, “I thought you locked that?”

“I did!”

He shrugged, “well, it’s closed now, I guess.”

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Frankie pulled the blanket up over her legs, balancing her mug on her knee, “could have sworn I closed it. It’s too cold to keep it open.”

He picked up the remote, “what do you wanna to watch?”

“Back to the Future?” Frankie said, making her best attempt at batting her lashes.

“We’ve watched that three times!”

“Fine. What do you want to watch?”

Nick shook his head, trying to look every bit the put upon, long suffering boyfriend and put Back to the Future on.

The kitchen light flickered, but neither paid any attention as the movie started.

Nick put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. She leaned against him and he kissed her on the head. They settled into the familiar movie, Frankie occasionally quoting lines a second before the characters said them and Nick pretending not to be impressed.

By the time Doc Brown was crouching in front of the old television, exclaiming how pleased he was to still have his hair in the video of the future Marty had shown him, Frankie was comfortably tucked against Nick’s side.

The TV screen went blank.

“Hey! Turn it back on!” Frankie said, swiping at Nick’s knee.

“Wasn’t me.” He shook the remote and tapped it in the palm of his hand. When he was satisfied that the gods of battery-operated devices were appeased, he pointed it at the TV.

The screen turned back on.

Nick shrugged. “See?”

“See what?”

“Percussive maintenance.”

She shook her head, a grin creeping across her face.

No sooner had Doc explained the nuclear reaction required to create 1.21 gigawatts so he could time travel than the screen went black again.

“Nick!”

“That wasn’t me. Seriously.”

He picked up the remote and turned the TV on again.

“Stop mucking around.”

“It was probably the ghost.”

“The ghost?” Frankie sat up.

“Maybe he just doesn’t like Michael J. Fox.”

“Not possible,” she said, settling back against him. “Everyone loves Michael J. Fox.”

The movie rolled on, and the tension in Frankie’s shoulders started to relax. Until the kitchen light dimmed. She looked towards it.

“The bulb probably needs changing, I’ll do it in the morning.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Probably.”

The movie went on.

“…flux capacitor, fluxing,” Marty said, gripping the DeLorean’s steering wheel.

The screen went out again.

Frankie tensed, “are you sure that’s not you?”

Nick shook his head, “definitely the ghost.”

“Stop trying to freak me out, Nick.”

“I’m not! Vicki said things move around all the time.”

“Things move around?”

“That’s what she said.”

Frankie looked towards the dark kitchen. “What do you mean? What kind of things?”

“I don’t know. She just said things, like cups and stuff.”

“She’s got two kids. Kids move stuff.”

No sooner had the words left her mouth than the kitchen light went completely out, a second later, back on and then off again.”

“Oh, come on,” Nick called into the dark. “You’re going to have to try harder than that.”

“Don’t make it angry.”

“I thought there was no ghost?”

For a few seconds neither of them said anything, Frankie fought the urge to somehow move closer to Nick. Then the kitchen light came back on.

Nick grinned, “see?”

Frankie stared at him, “see what?”

“It’s listening.”

“Nick.”

“What?”

“Stop.”

He laughed. “Okay, okay.”

He turned his attention back to the television. A few minutes later, the lamp beside them flickered.

Nick glanced at it, “you’re a bit of a show-off, aren’t you?”

Frankie gave him a look, “don’t encourage it.”

“I think it needs encouragement. Needs to know we believe in it.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Maybe.”

The movie ended and the credits rolled. Frankie stretched, her foot poking out from beneath the bottom of the blanket into the cold. Nick reached down and pulled the blanket over it.

“Cold?”

“Bit.”

The kitchen light flickered once more, they both looked at it.

Nick raised his eyebrows. “See?”

Frankie sighed. “I’m going to bed.”

“Yeah, righto.”

She stood, then paused, “can you check the back door?”

Nick looked at her. “You’re scared?”

“No I’m not.“

“You’re definitely scared.”

“I’m being… cautious.”

“Sure.” He got to his feet, grinning.

The kitchen light flickered again, Nick pointed at it. “Definitely needs to try harder.”

Frankie walked towards the bathroom, flicked on the light and froze in the doorway. The tile beneath her feet suddenly felt cold and the heat drained from her face.

“I think it’s a girl,” she said almost too quietly.

“What?”

“The ghost. I think it’s a girl.”

Nick stopped short and looked past her into the bathroom. The laundry basket had been tipped over. Dirty clothes lay sprawled across the floor.

Except they weren’t scattered randomly. They spelled out one word.

SHE

For a second neither of them spoke, they just stared at the mess on the floor.

“Okay,” he said loudly, as though he thought ghosts had hearing problems. “That’s actually pretty impressive.”

Frankie glanced at him, “you don’t have to shout.”

“I’m making sure she can hear me.”

“You’re being stupid.”

“You’re the one who said she was a girl.”

“No, I said she said she was a girl.”

“Right.” He looked back at the clothes and around the room, “hello, ghosty girl. Come here often?”

Frankie rolled her eyes, “don’t.”

“What?”

“Antagonise the dead person.”

“I’m just being friendly.”

“Friendly? You’re yelling at her.”

“I’m projecting my voice.”

Before Frankie could answer, a chair scraped its way out from under the kitchen table. Frankie jumped, turning towards the noise. The chair moved just centimetre or two ant first and then a few more… then stopped.

Nick’s grinned. “Did you see that?”

“Yes.” She swallowed, wrapping her arms around herself.

“Okay, that’s pretty good, colour me impressed,” he clapped, starting back toward the kitchen.

“Yeah, but nope,” Frankie pushed past him on her way towards the lounge room. “You can stay with your new best friend if you want. I’m going home.”

“But we were gonna have sex,” Nick whined his face falling like he’d been denied a treat.

She paused and for one dangerous second she nearly turned around, “not in your sister’s bed we weren’t.”

Nick frowned, “Yeah, fine, that’s fair...”

Frankie scooped up her bag and keys from beside the sofa and headed for the door. Nick followed.

As he stepped outside, he paused and looked back into the house. “Have a good night.”

Frankie grabbed his arm, “stop it!

“Stop what?”

“You’re creeping me out.”

The chair in the kitchen grated another few centimetres.

Nick looked over his shoulder, “I think she got a crush.”

Frankie grabbed his arm and half pulled him down the path towards the car. Behind them, the kitchen light flickered and the front door clicked shut,

The radio crackled as it landed on Islands in the Stream. Harry reached out to turn the dial, but Maya stopped her with a hand on her wrist.

“No,” she said. “This is sacred.”

Harry gave her a look. “Kenny and Dolly?”

“Absolutely.” Maya straightened in her seat, already mouthing the words.

The first chorus hit, and somehow—inevitably—they both started singing. Loudly. Badly. Off-key and with far too much enthusiasm. Harry didn’t know all the words, but that didn’t stop her, and Maya filled in the gaps with dramatic hand gestures and questionable falsetto.

They were halfway through the second chorus when the back door of the car opened.

“Please don’t stop on my account,” Pete said dryly, sliding into the back seat.

Both women jumped. Harry let out a soft curse. Maya turned scarlet.

Pete, to his credit, kept a straight face—mostly. “You know, I always suspected deep down you were karaoke people.”

Harry reached to turn the radio off with as much dignity as she could muster. “We were… reviewing cultural artifacts.”

“Thoroughly,” Maya said, still looking anywhere but Pete.

Buy Forgotten Lives here

The rain had left the campground smelling of damp earth and eucalyptus, but the ground had dried enough that they could finally risk a fire. Nick had spent part of the afternoon scavenging dry wood from the covered barbecue area, and now a respectable pile sat in the fire pit waiting to be lit.

“Al…

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Outside, water ran down the windows in uneven streams. Inside, every table was full, conversations overlapping into a constant wall of noise punctuated by laughter, shouted greetings and the occasional crash of someone dropping something.

Frankie and Nick sat at their usual table, squeezed in amongst his workmates. A collection of empty glasses had accumulated in the middle of the table like some kind of archaeological record of the evening.

They’d just finished a particularly heated round of marry, fuck, kill.

“You’re all insane,” Angie announced, throwing both hands in the air. “The obvious answer is kill Hugh Grant.”

The table erupted immediately.

“Absolutely not.”

“That’s criminal.”

“Have you even seen Notting Hill?”

“I’m just saying,” Angie said over the top of everyone else, “he’d be exhausting in real life.”

Nathan looked personally offended.

Before the argument could escalate further he suddenly sat upright. “Oi! Shut up!”

Nobody did.

Nathan grabbed the nearest fork and began tapping it against the side of his beer glass.

Tink. Tink. Tink.

Frankie watched him for a moment. She wondered vaguely how many people had broken glasses doing that over the years. Apparently not enough.

Eventually enough people noticed that the conversation began dying down. Nathan pointed dramatically around the table. “I’ve had an idea.”

The words came out slightly slurred. Immediately several people groaned.

“Oh no.”

“That’s never good.”

“Last time you had an idea we ended up banned from karaoke.”

“We are not banned,” Nathan said.

“You absolutely are.”

Nathan ignored them. “Camping.”

A brief silence followed.

“This weekend.”

The silence stretched.

“It’ll be bonding.”

Bill barked out a laugh.

“It’ll be wet!”

Nathan pointed at him. “Shut up. You’re not invited.”

Bill leaned back in his chair. “I didn’t want to go anyway.” The annoyance in his voice suggested otherwise.

Nathan forged ahead. “No but seriously. I know a place.”

That got a few people’s attention.

“A place?” Angie asked.

“Yeah. Out past the ranges. Waterfall. Creek. Never busy.”

The way he said it made it sound less like a campsite and more like he’d discovered a lost civilisation.

“We could spend the night. Just us and nature.”

He spread his arms wide. Several people looked unconvinced. Nathan, meanwhile, had developed the dreamy expression of a man who was picturing himself in a tourism advertisement.

Frankie suspected it had less to do with nature and more to do with the four beers he’d consumed.

She opened her mouth, fully intending to laugh and move on.

Nobody else did.

Angie tilted her head.

“Actually…”

Nathan immediately sat up straighter.

“It would be nice to get away.”

“Traitor,” Bill muttered.

“I heard that.”

A few others began nodding. Someone mentioned needing a break. Someone else said they’d been meaning to get outdoors more. The whole thing was somehow gaining momentum.

Frankie looked across at Nick. He was already looking at her. One eyebrow lifted slightly. What do you reckon?

Frankie glanced around the table again. The idea was ridiculous. It was almost certainly going to rain. Nathan’s version of planning generally involved enthusiasm substituting for logistics.

On the other hand… It might be fun. Or at least memorable. She gave a small shrug. Nick’s mouth twitched. Then he looked back at the group.

“Yeah,” he called over the noise. “We’re in.”

A cheer went up from Nathan like he’d just secured the final numbers required to launch an expedition. Frankie immediately began wondering what she’d just agreed to.

It wasn’t until they were halfway home that the practical implications started catching up with her. Rain pattered against the windscreen while the wipers worked steadily back and forth.

Streetlights blurred across the glass. Frankie stared out the passenger window for a moment before turning toward him.

“Where are we getting a tent and sleeping bags before tomorrow?”

Nick glanced across at her. Then he laughed. The bastard hadn’t thought about it either. “That’s why we’re going back to my place.”

“What?”

“My brother’s got camping gear.”

“And he’ll just lend it to us?”

“Probably.”

“Probably?”

Nick reached across and gave her knee a quick squeeze.

“It’ll be fine.”

Frankie looked at him. Then at the rain. Then back at him.

“You know every terrible decision starts with those exact words, right?”

His grin widened. “Yeah.”

Frankie sighed dramatically and settled back into her seat. The weekend was already looking like a disaster. Which, she suspected, was exactly why she was looking forward to it.

Frankie grumbled when Nick woke her the next morning.

“It’s too early,” she mumbled, rolling away from him and burrowing deeper into the blankets.

Nick reached across and stole the pillow out from under her head. Her face hit the mattress.

“Hey!”

“If we don’t get up we’ll be late getting to Nathan’s place.”

Frankie groaned into the sheets. “I’m willing to risk it.”

“I know you are.”

She turned her head enough to glare at him. “You’ve changed.”

“Because I want to leave the house before lunch?”

“You used to support my dreams.”

“My dreams involve coffee and not listening to Nathan complain that everyone’s abandoned him.”

Frankie sighed dramatically. “Fine.”

She sat upright so abruptly her hair ended up across her face. The look she gave him suggested she was making a personal note of this betrayal.

Nick grinned. “Morning, babe.”

“Don’t talk to me.”

An hour later they pulled up outside Nathan’s place. And discovered they were the only people there.

Nathan stood in the driveway beside an alarming amount of camping equipment. “I knew I could count on you,” he announced.

He shoved a sleeping bag into the boot of his car with considerably more confidence than accuracy. It bounced back out. Nathan caught it on the second attempt.

Frankie glanced around. “Where is everyone?”

Nathan waved dismissively. “Running late.”

Shelly, standing nearby with her arms folded, made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. She was dressed for a weekend outdoors. Unfortunately she looked like she’d only agreed to attend under protest.

“Morning,” Frankie said.

Shelly lifted her coffee cup.

“That’s one word for it.”

Nathan ignored her. “They’ll be here.”

His confidence lasted approximately three minutes. Then his phone rang. He answered immediately. The conversation was short. Very short.

Nathan’s expression fell.

“Oh.”

Pause.

“Oh.”

Longer pause.

“Right.”

He hung up. Nobody spoke.

Finally Shelly said, “Let me guess.”

Nathan sighed. “Angie’s got a migraine.”

“And David?”

“Apparently if Angie isn’t going, neither is he.”

Shelly nodded, “smart man.”

Nathan looked wounded.

Frankie exchanged a glance with Nick.

Two hours in a car with Nathan leading the way had already seemed like a lot.

Now it was going to be just them the entire weekend.

Nathan looked from one to the other.

“Well?”

Nick stepped slightly between Frankie and Nathan.

Not enough to be obvious. Just enough that they could have the conversation privately.

“Might as well still go?” he asked quietly.

Frankie looked at him for a moment. The sensible answer was probably no. The sensible answer also involved spending the weekend at home where there were functioning bathrooms and dry furniture.

On the other hand…

Nathan had clearly already emotionally committed.

“Yeah,” she said eventually. “Righto.”

Nick smiled. Then leaned over and kissed her forehead.

Nathan immediately brightened.

“Excellent.”

Shelly looked considerably less enthusiastic.

“Well,” Nathan announced, clapping his hands together, “it’s just us then.”

For a moment he looked disappointed. Then his usual optimism returned.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

Just over two hours later Frankie ate the last of the driving snacks. She held the empty packet upside down. Nothing. Not even a crumb.

“This is a tragedy.”

Nick glanced across from the driver’s seat.

“You said that about the chips.”

“Because that was also a tragedy.”

She held up the empty packet.

“We’re gonna need more for the drive home.”

“Where?”

Frankie fed him the final jelly snake.

“There was that small shop back a bit.”

Nick accepted the jelly snake without complaint.

“We’re not driving twenty minutes backwards for snacks.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely do.”

Ahead of them Nathan’s car finally indicated.

“Oh thank god,” Frankie said.

Nathan turned into a small gravel car park surrounded by bushland. Nick pulled into the space beside him and shut off the engine. Then he immediately looked away. Very deliberately.

Frankie narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“They’re fighting.”

“What?”

“They’re fighting.”

Frankie turned just in time to hear Shelly’s voice carrying clearly across the car park. Something that sounded remarkedly like shellfish custard.

Frankie immediately became fascinated by the glovebox. She opened it and began rummaging through its contents. A handful of old receipts. Two pens that definitely didn’t work. Several serviettes. And a folded paper map. She pulled it out. The thing was yellow around the edges.

“How old is this?”

Nick glanced across. A grin tugged at his mouth. “Careful.” He reached over and tapped the corner. “It’s antique.”

Frankie unfolded it. The paper crackled ominously.

“Good news.”

“What?”

“If we get lost and civilisation collapses, I think we’re covered.”

Outside, Nathan and Shelly appeared to have reached some kind of temporary ceasefire. Nathan waved both arms at them.

“Come on!”

Frankie looked at the endless bush beyond the car park. Then at the ancient map. Then at Nick.

Something told her this weekend was going to be a disaster. The worrying part was that she was already having fun.

Frankie rolled her sleeping bag out beside Nick’s. This hadn’t seemed like such a bad idea before it had properly settled in that they’d voluntarily chosen to sleep on the ground.

The tent floor was lumpy.

The air mattress Nick had sworn was “basically a hotel bed” had all the structural integrity of a warm pancake.

And there was already a small rock digging into her hip through at least three layers of fabric.

She lay back and stared at the tent ceiling.

“I hate camping.”

“You’ve been here three hours.”

“Three terrible hours.”

Nick ducked into the tent and zipped the door closed behind him. He lowered himself onto his sleeping bag with a grunt, knees drawn up.

“It’s not that bad.”

Frankie turned her head.

“How?”

“You’ve got me.” He said it with enough enthusiasm that she immediately knew he was lying. His smile gave him away.

She swatted him lightly with the back of her hand. “You hate this too.”

“A little bit.”

“A little bit?”

“The ground is aggressively present.”

Frankie laughed despite herself. “There it is.”

“What?”

“Being honest.”

Nick grinned. “I thought that’s what relationships were built on.”

“No. They’re built on proper mattresses.”

“Fair point.”

She rolled onto her side and kissed him. Just because she wanted to.

Nick made a small sound against her mouth and slid an arm around her waist automatically, pulling her closer.

Much better. The tent floor was still terrible. The air mattress was still losing a fight with basic physics. But for the first time since they’d arrived she wasn’t thinking about either of those things.

His hand settled at the small of her back. She smiled against his mouth and kissed him again. He leaned back and she followed without thinking, one leg tangling with his sleeping bag.

Maybe camping wasn’t completely awful.

Maybe—

“Come on, you two!”

Nathan’s voice arrived a second before his fist knocked against the side of the tent. The fabric shuddered.

Frankie groaned.

“Keep your hair on.”

“We’re going exploring!”

“That sentence has never ended well,” Frankie muttered.

Nathan knocked again. “There’s a waterfall!”

“We’ll be there in a minute!”

“You’re wasting daylight!”

Frankie dropped her forehead onto Nick’s shoulder.

“I liked it better when he was over there.”

Nick pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“Come on.”

Reluctantly, they untangled themselves and climbed back out into the afternoon.

Nathan was already halfway down the track.

Shelly stood nearby looking like she’d seriously considered pretending not to know him.

“Finally,” Nathan said.

“You’ve waited thirty seconds,” Shelly replied.

“It felt longer.”

The track wound away from the campsite through dense bush. Nathan immediately began walking backwards.

Frankie wasn’t sure whether this was confidence or stupidity. Possibly both.

“So this is actually how I found this place,” he announced.

“No one asked,” Shelly said.

Nathan ignored her. “I got a flat tyre.”

“That sounds less like a holiday and more like a problem,” Nick said.

“It was a problem.” Nathan pointed dramatically down the track. “I was stranded.”

“You had a phone.”

“It was before I had a good phone.”

“You mean before you dropped them every three months?” Shelly asked.

Nathan waved that away. “Anyway. I called my brother.”

Frankie could already tell this wasn’t going to end well.

“He said he’d come get me.”

Nathan turned just in time to step over a protruding tree root. Barely.

The movement didn’t slow him down. “He said two hours.”

“How long did it take?” Frankie asked.

Nathan’s expression darkened. “Four and a half.”

Nick laughed. “Four and a half?”

“He stopped for lunch.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Frankie laughed. “While you were stranded?”

“Apparently he was hungry.” Nathan pointed accusingly at her.

“See? This is why I camp alone.”

“No it isn’t,” Shelly said immediately.

Nathan pretended not to hear.

The track sloped gradually downhill. Somewhere ahead water rushed over rock. Frankie could hear it now. The bush began to thin slightly. Nathan spread his arms wide.

“And that,” he declared, “is when I discovered paradise.”

He took another step backwards. This time his heel caught properly. His arms pinwheeled wildly. For one glorious second Frankie thought he was about to disappear into the scrub. Somehow he recovered.

“Nearly got me.”

“The ground?” Nick asked.

Nathan nodded seriously. “Sneaky bastard.”

Shelly walked straight past him. “I cannot believe we’re related.”

“You aren’t.”

“Close enough.”

Frankie laughed. The sound surprised her.

She’d spent most of the day waiting for something to go wrong. But walking through the bush with Nick beside her, listening to Nathan tell increasingly ridiculous stories while Shelly heckled him, wasn’t actually unpleasant.

Maybe this weekend wouldn’t be a complete disaster after all.

The first raindrop landed on her nose. She stopped. Another hit her shoulder. Then another.

Nathan looked up. “Oh.”

The sky opened. Within seconds all four of them were running.

The rain stopped almost as quickly as it had started by the time they reached the campsite. Water still dripped from the trees overhead, splashing onto the muddy ground, but the sky had already begun brightening again.

Shelly didn’t slow down.

She marched straight past the tents and towards the carpark, arms folded tightly across her chest.

“Nah, don’t worry about her,” Nathan said, watching her go. “She’s just… she’ll be back soon.”

Frankie followed his gaze.

Shelly was disappearing between the trees at a pace that suggested she might keep walking until she reached Brisbane.

Nathan’s expression suggested he was having much the same thought.

Frankie smiled.

“’Course she will.”

Nick clapped Nathan on the shoulder.

“Give her half an hour. She’ll run out of things to be angry at.”

“That’s never happened before,” Nathan muttered.

That earned a laugh from both Frankie and Nick.

Nathan managed a weak smile in return.

“I’m gonna get changed,” Frankie announced.

“Good idea,” Nick said, looking down at his own soaked clothes.

Frankie headed for their tent, ducking inside and immediately appreciating being out of the damp air. The small space smelled faintly of canvas, sleeping bags and the packet of salt and vinegar chips Nick had somehow managed to crush earlier.

She peeled off her wet shirt with a grimace.

A few minutes later the tent flap unzipped and Nick squeezed inside.

“He okay?” Frankie asked, pulling a dry shirt over her head.

Nick shrugged as he sat down and started wrestling with the laces of his boots.

“He says he is.”

“Which means he isn’t.”

“Pretty much.”

Frankie sat beside him as he dragged off one soggy sock.

“You think she’ll come back?”

“Oh, definitely.”

The confidence sounded suspiciously forced.

Nick caught her look and sighed.

“Probably.”

Frankie laughed.

The first drops hit the tent a second later.

Then more followed.

Within moments rain was drumming steadily against the canvas overhead.

Both of them looked up.

The silence stretched.

Then Frankie folded her arms. “Shelly might be right.”

Nick stared at the roof of the tent as another burst of rain rattled across it.

“Yeah.”

A second passed.

“Maybe don’t tell Nathan that.”

My feed is filled with people calling out the “reverse racism” of the film casting Black actors and the blatant transphobia surrounding Elliot Page playing Sinon.

If you’ve been on social media, you know how it goes — Nolan is ruining historical accuracy by using non-white actors because, as we all know, white lives matter too. But don’t worry, these people aren’t racist.

Here’s what I think people like this are missing. Aside from the fact that the Trojan War and Odysseus’ journey back to Ithaca are stories — something made up by a man with his imagination.

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The word “fiction” is in the genre title.

Yup, it comes after the word “historical,” but the fiction part is doing a lot of the heavy lifting here.

In movies and literature, historical fiction may portray historical events or be set in a certain era, but that doesn’t mean it’s required to present only fact.

In order to create an audience-appealing narrative, sometimes events are portrayed out of order or left out completely. Some characters become composites to avoid confusion or for other reasons, so those individual people don’t exist in the world of that fictional story.

Now let’s take a quick dive into the idea that Helen of Troy couldn’t possibly be Black.

• She’s fictional. There’s no evidence she ever existed.

• Troy existed in what is now Türkiye.

• There are only about 800 km (500 miles) between North Africa and Türkiye.

• Helen’s parentage is Leda, Queen of Sparta, and Zeus… in the form of a swan.

My first point is: if Zeus can transform himself into a swan, why is it not possible that his child could appear to be of African descent?

Even if you understand that there’s no way a mythic figure could parent a child—because they don’t exist—just like today, migration was a thing in the ancient world.

So, assuming that Helen’s father was a human, and understanding that we know nothing about him, it’s also plausible that he was a migrant from Africa. Just like Ancient Rome, it was common practice for the Greeks to enslave people from defeated nations, and this could have included people from Africa… or hey, maybe he was in Greece to trade.

My point is, ancient people were not stagnant. If you were Greek, you didn’t have to stay in Greece. If you were African, you didn’t have to stay in Africa. You moved about.

Finally, there is no archaeological or historical evidence that Helen of Troy ever existed. Trying to argue that, as a fictional character, she couldn’t possibly have been Black is like trying to tell me that the Greek gods didn’t live on Mount Olympus and instead lived on Mount Parnassus. It’s nuts.

Besides all of the above, we all know that the only reason people are so offended that Black actors have been cast in a fictional movie is racism. No other reason need apply.

Or maybe Cyclopes and sirens really do exist…

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She looked away again quickly.

“What?”

“Nothing.” The grin she was trying to hide only got bigger.

He bumped her lightly with his hip.

“No.”

“What?”

“What was that face?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You absolutely do.”

She bit her lip.

“Tell me.”

Finally she laughed. “Do you still think you could take a drop bear?”

Nick didn’t even hesitate, “obviously.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulders as though preparing for battle.

Frankie looked at him. “Oh?”

“Yep.”

“Do tell, genius.”

“Well…” He scanned the branches overhead suspiciously, “they’re only little.”

“So?”

“I’d just outrun it.”

Frankie laughed so hard she had to stop walking. “They’re famous for how fast they are, Nick.”

“So are emus.”

“They’re also famous for killing people.”

“They’re not.”

“They could if they wanted to.”

“They don’t.”

“They choose not to.”

Nick nodded thoughtfully, “that’s nice of them.”

She shook her head, “you remember that time you decided you wanted to start jogging?”

He groaned immediately, “shh. We were never going to talk about that again.”

She slipped an arm around his waist and gave him a squeeze, “I had to drive two kilometres to rescue you because you got dizzy.”

“I was easing into fitness.”

“You’d been running for eleven minutes.”

“It was twelve.”

“Oh, well.” She smiled sweetly, “that changes everything.”

He laughed despite himself, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

“You just wait.”

“For what?”

“Until you do something embarrassing.”

“Ah,” she lifted her chin. “But I never do.”

“Mmm…” He gave her a sceptical look, “we’ll see.”

She poked him in the ribs, “back to the drop bear.”

“Oh,” he nodded seriously. “There’s always the Vegemite trick.”

Frankie folded her arms. “So your entire strategy for defeating a drop bear… is avoiding the drop bear?”

“Correct.”

“I thought you said you could take one.”

“I can.”

“How?”

“I won’t have to.”

She stared at him, “you’ve really thought this through.”

“I have.”

“And?”

“I’m many things, he grinned. “But I’m not a stupid man.”

Frankie rolled onto her back and groaned.

Every joint ached. She blinked slowly at the ceiling, trying to remember why she’d woken up feeling like she’d been hit by a bus.

Then she swallowed. Pain shot down her throat like she’d tried to gargle broken glass.

“Oh…”

That explained it. She lay there for another minute, trying to convince herself that if she just stayed perfectly still, her body might decide it wasn’t sick after all.

It didn’t.

With another groan she swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, elbows on her knees, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

Tea. Tea with honey. That would help. Probably.

She must have picked something up on the bus. Or at the supermarket. Or touching a shopping trolley. Or one of the thousand other places people insisted on sharing their germs.

By the time she’d showered and dressed she still felt miserable, but at least she was clean. That counted for something.

Frankie stood a few metres away from everyone else at the bus stop, a pale blue surgical mask covering the lower half of her face.

If she was going to be miserable, she wasn’t taking anyone else down with her. Her throat still felt like razor blades.

She’d duck into the newsagent before work and grab a packet of Butter-Menthols. They didn’t actually do anything. But they tasted nice. Sometimes that was enough.

The office was already buzzing by the time she arrived.

Frankie mumbled a muffled good morning through her mask and made a beeline for her desk before anyone could start a conversation she didn’t have the energy for.

The morning crawled.

Simple emails took twice as long to write.

She found herself reading the same paragraph over and over because none of the words seemed willing to stay in her head.

Somewhere around ten o’clock she developed a cough.

Not a dramatic one.

Just enough to make her throat hurt even more every time it happened.

She sipped tea.

She sucked on another Butter-Menthol.

She answered another email.

Time seemed to have stopped altogether.

By eleven she’d abandoned all hope of being productive.

Her eyes burned.

Her head felt strangely heavy.

She rested her forehead in one hand while waiting for a spreadsheet to load.

Just for a minute.

Just until the screen stopped swimming.

When she opened her eyes again, her head was resting on her folded arms.

The spreadsheet had long since loaded.

Someone cleared their throat. Frankie looked up. Sally was standing beside her desk. She took one look at Frankie and frowned.

“You look like death.”

Frankie attempted a smile.

“I’m okay.”

The words came out rough enough that she immediately had to clear her throat. She winced.

Sally didn’t look remotely convinced.

“Go home.”

“I’m…”

“Go home.”

There wasn’t any annoyance in Sally’s voice. Just the firm tone of someone who’d already made the decision.

Frankie opened her mouth to argue. Nothing came out except another cough.

Sally raised an eyebrow.

Frankie sighed.

“…Yeah.”

“Good.”

Sally gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze as she turned away.

“And don’t come back until you stop looking like something we found in the filing cabinet.”

#

Frankie had no idea how long she’d been asleep. One minute she’d flopped onto the couch with every intention of resting her eyes for five minutes. The next, she was being dragged back to consciousness by the insistent buzzing of her phone.

She groaned.

The sound vibrated somewhere near her feet.

After a moment of confused blinking, she realised her handbag was lying on the floor where she’d dropped it after getting home. Her phone had spilled out beside it and was now dancing across the floor with every vibration.

With considerably more effort than should have been required, she leaned over the edge of the couch and fished it out.

Nick calling.

She accepted the call and lifted the phone to her ear.

“…Hello?” The word came out as little more than a croak. It sounded like she’d swallowed sandpaper.

“You sound awful,” Nick said immediately.

Frankie cleared her throat. Instant regret. It felt like she’d tried to swallow a handful of thumbtacks.

“Thanks,” she rasped. “I was sleeping.”

“I just wanted to see if you’re feeling any better.”

She swallowed. The movement sent another sharp sting through her throat. “I’m fine.”

There was a long sigh on the other end of the line. “No, you’re not.”

Before she could argue, a cough forced its way out. It was loud, dry and barking, leaving her chest aching by the time it finally subsided.

Nick waited patiently.

“You done?”

Frankie sniffed. “…Maybe.”

“I’m coming over after work.”

“I can look after myself.” The words came out sharper than she’d intended. She closed her eyes.

It wasn’t Nick she was annoyed with. She was annoyed at being sick. At feeling helpless. At needing anyone.

There was a brief silence. Then, quietly, “I know you can.” The edge she’d expected never came. “I just don’t think you should have to.”

Frankie rubbed tiredly at her forehead. “You’ll get sick.”

“Maybe.”

“I don’t want to be responsible for that.”

Another pause. “At least let me bring you some dinner.”

She swallowed again and winced. “Hurts too much to eat.”

“Soup, then.”

She didn’t answer.

“You don’t even have to see me,” Nick continued. “I’ll leave it at your front door and disappear before you answer.”

Despite herself, the corner of her mouth twitched. “You’ve really thought this through.”

“I’ve had all afternoon.”

Frankie let out a slow breath. Her head hurt. Everything hurt.

The idea of not having to think about dinner was suddenly very appealing.

“…Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Frankie?”

“Mm?”

“Try to get some more sleep.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” She hung up and let the phone fall onto the cushion beside her.

Within seconds, she was asleep again.

The next time Frankie woke, the lounge room had turned golden with the last light of the afternoon. For a moment she had no idea where she was. Then a soft knock sounded at the front door. She groaned.

Every movement felt like wading through wet concrete as she pushed herself upright. Her head throbbed in time with her heartbeat, and she rubbed slow circles between her brows, hoping it might somehow convince the headache to leave.

It didn’t.

A tissue disappeared from the box on the coffee table. She blew her nose. Nothing changed except she’d gone through another tissue.

“Fantastic.”

By the time she’d shuffled to the front door, whoever had knocked was gone. Nick had kept his word.

A reusable shopping bag sat neatly on the doormat. She glanced up the street out of habit, but his car was nowhere to be seen.

She couldn’t help smiling.

Inside the bag sat a plastic container of pumpkin soup, two bread rolls still warm enough to suggest he’d only just bought them, a packet of Butter-Menthols, tissues, cold and flu tablets, a bottle of orange juice and, for reasons known only to Nick, a family-sized block of chocolate.

A note rested on top.

Eat the soup. Take the tablets. Drink water. – Nick

Despite her pounding head, Frankie laughed. It immediately triggered another coughing fit.

“…Worth it.”

Her stomach growled. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was. Carrying the bag into the kitchen, she found a saucepan in the cupboard, poured the soup into it and set it on the stove. Then she wandered to the kitchen table and collapsed into a chair.

After several long seconds she frowned. Something wasn’t right. She looked towards the stove. The burner wasn’t on.

“…Fuck.”

With all the enthusiasm she could muster, she stood, turned the burner on and shuffled back to the table.

The soup eventually began to steam. Frankie briefly considered drinking it straight from the saucepan.

Nobody was there to judge her. It would save washing another dish. Common sense won by the narrowest of margins. She poured it into a bowl, carried it carefully back to the table and sat down, pausing to wipe her nose before taking the first spoonful.

It still hurt to swallow. Not quite razor blades anymore. More… sandpaper.

Still, warmth spread through her stomach with every mouthful, and after half the bowl she already felt marginally more human.

She leaned forward. Pushed the bowl away. Rested her forehead on her folded arms.

Just for a minute.

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Something smelled wrong. Frankie’s eyes snapped open.

Smoke.

“Oh, shit.”

She lurched to her feet so quickly the chair nearly toppled backwards. The room tilted alarmingly. She grabbed the edge of the table until the dizziness settled enough to stumble towards the stove.

The bottom of the saucepan had turned black. What little soup remained was enthusiastically attempting to become charcoal. She flicked the burner off and stared at it.

Her phone buzzed from somewhere in the lounge room.

She found it between the couch cushions.

Nick calling.

She answered.

“I burned the soup.”

There was a beat of silence. Then a strangled sound. “…Did you just say you burned the soup?”

“I burned the soup.”

He made another suspicious noise. One that sounded very much like he was trying not to laugh. “You burned… soup?”

“Shut up.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You laughed.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

A snort escaped him. Then another.

Frankie closed her eyes. “I can hear you.”

“I’m sorry,” Nick managed, failing completely to sound sorry. “It’s just… I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone burning soup.”

“I fell asleep.”

“That explains it.”

“It doesn’t make me feel better.”

“No.”

Another laugh escaped him. “I’m really trying.”

Frankie sighed dramatically. “You are a terrible person.”

“I know.”

A moment of quiet passed. “You sure you don’t want me to come over?”

“Yes,” she croaked.

Nick sniffed. She knew that sniff. He was still trying not to laugh. “Was that yes, you’re sure…” A pause. “…or yes, you want me to come over?”

Frankie looked down at herself. She was still wearing the same clothes she’d worn to work. There were splashes of pumpkin soup drying down the front of her shirt.

The kitchen smelled faintly burnt.

She’d managed to ruin soup.

Soup.

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“…Come over.”

His reply came without a second’s hesitation. “Already grabbing my keys.”

About fifteen minutes later, Frankie cracked one eye open as the front door unlocked.

The door clicked shut behind him.

He stopped, reusable shopping bag in hand. His eyebrows climbed slowly towards his hairline.

Frankie followed his gaze.

Used tissues had accumulated into several untidy piles around the couch. The empty soup bowl still sat on the coffee table, and orange splodges stained the front of her work shirt where she’d apparently worn more pumpkin soup than she’d actually eaten.

“I don’t look that bad.”

Nick looked back at her. “Yeah, Actually, you do.”

“I’m fine.”

He glanced towards the kitchen where the unmistakable smell of burnt soup still lingered.

“Frankie…”

“What?”

“You burnt soup.”

The corners of his mouth twitched.

She pointed a finger at him. “Shut up.”

“I’m trying.”

“I can tell.”

“I’m failing.”

She sighed dramatically and slid sideways until her head rested against the arm of the couch. “I don’t need this abuse.”

“You absolutely do.” A laugh escaped him before he set the shopping bag on the coffee table.

“I brought backup soup.”

Frankie cracked one eye open again. “You expected me to burn the first one?”

“I expected the unexpected.”

“That’s annoyingly sensible.”

“I have my moments.”

He looked towards the hallway. “What are you wearing?”

Frankie looked down at herself. “My clothes.”

“The ones you’ve apparently been sick in all day.”

“…Yes.”

“They’re covered in soup.”

“I noticed.”

“And you’ve slept in them.”

“…Also yes.”

Nick nodded once, as though confirming a theory. “I’ll get you something else.”

“You know where everything is.”

“I do.”

He disappeared down the hallway before she could protest. Frankie listened to cupboard doors opening and closing in her bedroom. A minute later he reappeared carrying an old university t-shirt and a pair of well-worn tracksuit pants.

“Doctor’s orders.”

“I don’t think you’re a doctor.”

“No, but I am right.”

She sighed. “I hate how often that happens.”

“It’ll happen more if you keep arguing.”

Frankie shuffled off the couch with considerably less grace than she’d have liked and disappeared into the bedroom to change.

By the time she emerged several minutes later, the tracksuit felt infinitely better than her work clothes.

Nick was in the kitchen. Water ran into the sink. Crockery clinked together. She wandered over to find him scrubbing the saucepan she’d managed to destroy.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“You really don’t.”

“I really know.” He rinsed the saucepan and reached for the sponge again.

“So stop worrying about it.”

Frankie leaned against the doorway. “I was going to clean it.”

“When?”

She thought about that. “…Tomorrow?”

Nick looked over his shoulder. “You were absolutely not.”

She couldn’t honestly argue.

He smiled.

“Go back to the couch.”

“I can help.”

“You can barely stand up.”

“I can supervise.”

“I don’t need supervision.”

“I could offer moral support.”

“You can offer it from the couch.”

Frankie opened her mouth. Nick pointed the sponge at her. “Go to sleep.”

She rolled her eyes with all the theatrical annoyance she could muster. “Bossy.”

“Sick.”

“Rude.”

“Accurate.”

She muttered something under her breath that was probably an insult and shuffled back to the lounge. The cushion moulded comfortably beneath her head. She hadn’t realised how tired she still was.

The sounds of Nick quietly tidying the kitchen drifted through the house. Running water. Cupboards opening and closing. The occasional clink of a plate.

Ordinarily she might have felt guilty watching someone else clean up after her. Instead… It was nice. Nice not having to think. Nice not having to do anything. Her eyelids grew heavier.

The last thing she remembered was Nick gently draping a blanket over her shoulders. He brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face before pressing a soft kiss to the top of her head.

“Get some sleep,” he murmured.

This time, she did.