Evie Wyld's writing about rural Australia is so lush and raw that you can smell the breeze that whips through the eucalyptus groves, and hear the butcherbird's call. The shredded internal terrain that her characters traverse is written with such astute empathy that by the middle of the novel you begin to physically feel the gaze of monsters both real and imagined. You begin to wonder what could be lurking at the edge of that eldritch sugarcane field.
