Men of self-important authority, so designated by the status embedded into their fancy white coats, stood around in a hazy confusion, checking their watches and their calendars with frustrated arrogance.
"It's a bit early," said one.
"A few months so," agreed another.
"A mistake must have been made," noted a third.
"Not ours," confirmed the last.
Ostensibly arriving too soon to her own party, Ada (a, then, crying and unnamed immature thing) decided it best to give these men some space. Taking this space, and then some more that they were less explicitly afforded, these men took it upon themselves to make some decisions on Ada's behalf. They noted a date, disgruntled that it was so many months earlier than prophecied, and they noted a weight. They noted a height and, as they felt was their wont, they assigned a gender.
After some dispassionate scrutiny, to ensure she had such essential things as two lungs and half as many spleens, Ada was expelled from this site of her summoning, and left to wander the great empty fields, and courts, and pitches, and ovals of Hoppers Crossing/Werribee, a girl in boy's clothing. To the boys an imposter, and to the gender police a fugitive and renegade, Ada was kicked and spit on. She was beat and she was mocked. She was jeeringly sledged, but, of course, it was all in good fun.
Ada learned from the moral savannah of her childhood and adolescence that the Universe is as cold and indifferent, as uncaring and hostile, as those who would torment her for the colour of her shirt or the delicacy of her gait. She learned it is as empty of love as so many of those around her -- unless with love and art we fill it.
And so this helpless wanderer chose to create, to add love to a world with so little left.