1

      Anna ran along the autostrada, holding the straps of the rucksack that was bouncing on her back. Now and then she turned her head to look back.

      The dogs were still there. One behind the other, in single file. Six or seven of them. A couple, in worse shape than the others, had dropped out, but the big black one in front was getting closer.

      She’d spotted them two hours before at the bottom of a burnt field, appearing and disappearing among dark rocks and blackened trunks of olive trees, but hadn’t thought anything of them.

      This wasn’t the first time she’d been followed by a pack of wild dogs. They usually kept up the chase for a while, then tired and wandered off.

      She liked to count as she walked. How many steps it took to cover a kilometre, the number of blue cars and red cars, the number of flyovers.

      Then the dogs had reappeared.

      Desperate creatures, adrift in a sea of ash. She’d come across dozens like them, with mangy coats, clumps of ticks hanging from their ears, protruding ribs. They’d fight savagely over the remains of a rabbit. The summer fires had burnt the lowlands and there was virtually nothing left to eat.

      She passed a queue of cars with smashed windows. Weeds and wheat grew around their ash-covered carcasses.

      The sirocco had driven the flames right down to the sea, leaving a desert behind it. The asphalt strip of the A29, which linked Palermo to Mazara del Vallo, cut across a dead expanse out of which rose blackened stumps of palm trees and a few plumes of smoke. To the left, beyond what was left of Castellammare del Golfo, a segment of grey sea merged with the sky. To the right, a line of low dark hills floated on the plain like distant islands.

      The road was blocked by an overturned lorry. Its trailer had smashed into the central reservation, scattering basins, bidets, toilet bowls and shards of white ceramic over dozens of metres. She ran straight through the debris.

      Her right ankle was hurting. In Alcamo she’d kicked open the door of a grocery shop.

      *

      To think that, until the dogs’ appearance, everything had been going fine.

      She’d left home when it was still dark. From time to time she was forced to go further afield in search of food. Previously it had been easy: you only had to go to Castellammare and you found what you wanted. But the fires had complicated everything. She’d been walking for three hours under the sun as it rose in a pale cloudless sky. The summer was long past, but the heat wouldn’t let up. The wind, after starting the fire, had vanished, as if this part of creation no longer held any interest for it.

      In a garden centre, next to a crater left by the explosion of a petrol pump, she’d found a crate full of food under some dusty tarpaulins.

      In her rucksack she had six cans of Cirio beans, four cans of Graziella tomatoes, a bottle of Amaro Lucano, a large tube of Nestlé condensed milk, a bag of rusks, which were broken, but would still make a good meal soaked in water, and a half-kilo vacuum pack of pancetta. She hadn’t been able to resist that; she’d eaten the pancetta immediately, in silence, sitting on some bags of compost heaped up on the floor, which was covered with mouse droppings. It was as tough as leather, and so salty it had burnt her mouth.

      *

      The black dog was gaining ground.

      Anna speeded up, her heart pumping in time with her steps. She couldn’t keep this up much longer. She was going to have to stop and face her pursuers. Oh for a knife. As a rule she always carried one with her, but she’d forgotten to pack one that morning, and had gone out with an empty rucksack and a bottle of water.

      The sun was only four inches above the horizon – an orange ball trapped in purple drool. Soon to be swallowed up by the plain. On the other side, the moon, as thin as a fingernail.

      She looked back.

      He was still there. The other dogs had gradually dropped away. Not him. He hadn’t closed on her over the last kilometre. But she was running flat out; he was just loping along.

      Waiting for darkness before he attacked? Surely not. Dogs didn’t plan so rationally, did they? Whatever: she wouldn’t be able to keep this up until nightfall. The pain in her ankle had now increased and spread to her calf.

      She passed a green sign. Five kilometres to Castellammare. The white line between the lanes provided a sure guide to concentrate on. The only sounds were her breathing and her feet hitting the asphalt. No wind, no birdsong, no chirping of crickets or cicadas.

      Passing another car, she was tempted to get in and rest, but thought better of it. What about dropping the rusks on the road for the dog to eat? Or climbing over the fence at the side of the road? No, the mesh was too tight, and there didn’t seem to be any breaks in it she could slip through.

      Or the central reservation on the other side? Here some oleanders had survived the fire. Their branches hung down, heavy with pink flowers, their pungent scent mingling with the smell of burnt wood.

      The partition was high.

      But you’re the kangaroo.

      That was the nickname Signorina Pini, her old gym teacher, had given her, because she could jump higher than the boys. Anna didn’t like it; kangaroos have long floppy ears. She’d have preferred to be associated with the leopard, a far more elegant jumper.

      Hurling the rucksack over the bushes, she took a short run-up, used the concrete kerb as a springboard and jumped through the branches onto the other side.

      She retrieved the rucksack and counted up to ten, panting. Then she punched the air, flashing her teeth in a full smile, a rare event for her.

      She limped on. If only she could find some way of getting over the fence on this side of the road, she’d be safe.

      Beyond the fence was a steep slope down to a narrow road which ran parallel to the autostrada. Not the best place to climb over with a swollen ankle. She slipped off the rucksack and looked back.

      She saw the dog leap through the oleanders and come galloping down the road.

      He wasn’t black at all; he was white, his coat covered with ash. The tip of one of his ears was missing. And he was huge: the biggest dog she’d ever seen.

      And if you don’t get moving he’s going to eat you.

      She grabbed the mesh of the fence to climb up, but was paralysed by fear. She turned round and slid down onto the road.

      The dog raced down the last few metres of the autostrada and jumped over the guardrail and ditch. Then he jumped on her – all forty stinking kilos of him.

      Anna stuck out her elbow, aiming at the dog’s ribs. He collapsed in a heap. She stood up.

      He lay there, an almost human astonishment in his eyes.

      She picked up the rucksack and hit him on the head, on the neck, then on the head again. He yelped, struggling to get to his feet. Anna swung round full circle like a hammer-thrower, but the strap of the rucksack broke, she lost her balance and put out her foot to steady herself, but her sore ankle couldn’t take the weight and she fell to the ground.

      They lay there for a moment, looking at each other, then the dog sprang at her, snarling.

      Raising her