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Digger twisted his mouth into a frustrated grimace. The machine was still rough. It needed fine tuning. "It predicts tendencies and possibilities. It can't tell you specifics like lottery numbers or definite events. That contravenes the quantum laws of probability."

The little boy looked puzzled, which wasn't all that surprising. "So what does it predict?'

"Positive and negative clusters in time."

"Like good and evil?"

"Sort of."

"Have you tested it on people yet?"

Digger paused. Yes, he felt like saying. I tested it on myself and it didn't respond. The machine remained completely blank. Nothing there. No peaks or troughs, just a straight, non-eventful line. As though he had no future. As though he didn't exist.

"No," Digger said. "It isn't quite finished."

The boy's questions were beginning to prod at Digger's sore spot.

He was nine months into a year off from University - a break between his Masters and a PhD program. He had stolen this slice of time to build the untangler.

He had completed all the paperwork and calculations for his theory of cosmic untangling and he knew the machine worked. It had predicted the energy trough associated with the car crash outside his house last Tuesday. It had predicted the disturbed air that led to yesterday's hail storm. Three months ago, it had predicted the neighborhood's collective joy at the departure of cantankerous and foul-mouthed Mr Wilson. But he was still no closer to finding a practical commercial application for it.

It was as though the boy had read his thoughts.

"If you can't predict exact events, then what's the point of it?"

Digger forced a smile. This kid was bright beyond his years. Cute too. He began to wonder what his mother looked like.

"It'll just be a matter of finding the right market," he said. "It can predict increased chances of positive or negative events, based on quantum fluctuations in time pockets. Farmers might change their crops or business people could find the information helpful in planning. Politicians or military strategists may postpone key decisions or move them forward, based on the predictions of the machine."

The little boy looked up into the sky again and bit his lip thoughtfully.

"Perhaps predicting the future changes the future," he said.

Digger heard a screen door squeak and clunk on the other side of the fence. The noise disturbed a flock of sulphur crested cockatoos resting in the magnolia tree. They screamed in unison and flew upwards like a winged white sheet. A sudden light breeze threaded through his hair and Digger looked down at the receiver's screen. It briefly fell into a still, straight line and then burst into a flurry of wild calligraphic activity.

"Jamal!" a woman called. "Where are you?" Her voice had a melodic lilt – the sound of a foreign tongue carefully curling itself around unfamiliar words.

The boy looked around and scrambled back to his side of the fence. "It's snack time!" He raised his voice. "I'm here, mum! I'm talking to our new neighbour!"

What Digger saw next came as a complete surprise.

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When he thought about it several years later, he realised he had expected to see a shrouded figure in a chador, or at least a shy woman with downcast eyes in a headscarf.

But what he remembered most about that moment was how he felt.

The axis of the world had shifted. The very air had changed form. Everything was the same, yet utterly different. It was a moment in which every tiny detail was thrown into sharp relief. A moment of frozen time. Jamal's mother came over to the fence and smiled at him. A grown-up adult toothed version of her son's smile. She had the same strong nose. Her hair was thicker and curlier than her son's and, if possible, it looked even blacker. It was roughly tied back in a tangled knot and a single strand danced across her cheek, between restraint and rebellion.

Her eyes were a light and mischievous green. When she looked at Digger, they seemed to be simultaneously reflecting the blue of the sky and the deep green of the lawn. Digger felt as though he had blissfully plunged into their depths and willingly drowned.

"I'm so pleased to meet you," she said. "I'm Salma." She was holding a plate full of dried fruits and nuts; as she spoke, the plate tilted and a cascade of almonds spilled onto the lawn.

"Digby," said Digger, suddenly self-conscious. His gaze fell to his worn shoes and his corduroy trousers threadbare and bagging at the knees. He wished the soggy grass would swallow him up. "Just call me Digger," he added, looking away towards his washing line, where two old tee shirts and four pairs of dismal grayish white Y-fronts teased him in the breeze.

Jamal looked at his mother and gave her an excited smile. "Mr Digger is a scientist," he said. "He has invented a machine that predicts the future."

Salma looked at Digger and laughed. It wasn't a mocking laugh, but a laugh like a thousand Suns lighting up the garden. She offered him the plate, and Digger helped himself to a strange looking red and wrinkled fruit.

"So," she said. "Have you found a way to dissect the poetry of the universe?"

"Not exactly," said Digger. "But I am working on untangling the language of nature."

She smiled at him again and Digger plucked up the courage to take another good look at her. She had skin the colour of maple syrup and wore a green, floral shirt that showed just a modest hint of cleavage.

"My husband was a scientist too," she said. Her eyes took on a milky, far away look and suddenly she looked fathomlessly sad.

"I'm sorry," said Digger.

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