>Garth felt the heat, saw the bite, and waited till it turned white to really consider it. It was one of those long, relentless Brisbane afternoons, where the sun seemed to exist only to pan-fry one side of your face. Garth thought about cancer, lots of cancers really, dotting his face, those little seeds of death that grew popcorn-fast in public service announcements, changing colour, shape and size until they were as big as a doorknob and effortlessly fatal. Garth rubbed at the bite for a while, denying himself the nasty pleasure of a nail scratch, inevitably leading to bleeding, infection, minor terrors. He heard the mosquito droning, turning around no doubt, returning to scope and swoop and inevitably to bite again.


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