Ever since the conversation a few days ago, Pam had avoided Nīkau. “You know some people claim to be indigenous just to get the benefits,” Pam had said, just out of Glow’s earshot. Nīkau was used to people failing to recognise she was Māori. Pam was from WA. It was the night of the writers festival meet and greet and the culmination of the monthlong residency.
When Nīkau said, “You don’t really know that, do you?” Pam fixed Nīkau with a narrow stare and said, “Oh, I know, all right.”
Nīkau and Glow took their bourbons back outside the hotel and watched a few cockatoos screech overhead, their yellow tails catching the last of the sun, their white wings stretched wide.
Shelley texted from Ōtepoti. RUnear the fires e hoa?
“Are we?” Nīkau said. The silk shirt Nīkau had borrowed off Glow was already sticking to her back with sweat. Nīkau wasn’t planning on coming tonight but when Glow came
