The earthquakes are frequent. Like a giant child picking up a mysterious present and shaking it, to see what's inside. But it's our house, and we're inside, tiny heads shuddering on tiny pillows. It always happens in the pre-dawn hours. Knick knacks, books, vases falling off shelves. New Zealand is a very shaky island. A monsterous living thing, stirring in its sleep. Drills all through my school years. Giggling, sighing, hiding under chewing gummed desks. We're supposed to be tense, waiting for the BIG one. Like one in the 60s, in Napier, when the earth literally opened up, buses and people walking dogs tumbled into it, down down down. I think the earth closed again, then. A nifty time to fake a disappearance.