This week’s WWW comes from an Australian short story.
She walked giddily behind him, past a rusted fuel-stove, over a field of deathly feltex. Or ran, or slid, to keep up. Flowers would have wilted in her hands if she hadn’t crushed them brutally, to keep her balance. Somewhere in their private labyrinth Meg Hobgen had lost her hat.
Have a guess. Answer will be posted on Sunday.