The screen displayed:

When the hour ended and the glass dome lifted, the spiders were safely removed. Neither of them had dropped a single crumb.

Priya folded her arms, jaw tight. Mick said nothing, just picked at his fingernails.

On the table between them: one last roast potato, wrapped in a napkin, with a note in Mick’s handwriting:

Priya smiled, ate the cold potato, and whispered to the camera: “Australia, you are deeply, deeply strange. But I think I love you for it.”