As the crunches and scrapes of the walkers grew louder, Kara held her breath. She timed it badly, though, and just before they got to her she exhaled sharply, almost coughing in the process. The strangers passed, oblivious to her presence. A middle-aged couple, slim and fit. The man had an odd-shaped but well-clipped beard. The woman wore a designer hiking outfit in retro pastel colors. Kara could tell that they weren’t from around here. They held themselves — as did all white mainlanders — with that peculiar, assured air. It made them seem taller and more upright than the locals. Kara hadn’t seen their car — which must have been in the bottom car park — but she formed a mental picture of a bright-orange Subaru wagon, with ski racks and hexagon-patterned alloys.

Heaving herself up, she stumbled back onto the track. The couple’s scent still lingered there, fresh and modern. She squeezed the damp seat of her jeans and felt water trail down the back of her left leg to her sock. Swinging a wild, angry kick at a pile of wombat droppings, she aggravated her knee even further. It was time to admit it: she was having a bad day. This walk was meant to turn it around but it was failing dismally.

~

Kara was the receptionist at the Aboriginal housing co-op in Launceston. She was the face, the voice, the first point of contact. She was used to copping shit, but that didn’t make it any more palatable.

When the woman had barged in that morning with her son, and stood boldly in front of the counter with her hand on her hip, Kara knew what was up. She’d seen a thousand Johnny-come-latelys and had observed there were two main types: the ones who played the sympathy card, and the ones who tried to intimidate you into accepting them. This woman and her son were the latter kind.

‘We want our Aboriginal papers, please. We just found out his father could be Indigenous.’ The woman added ‘please’ through gritted teeth, and Kara wondered why she even bothered.

‘Has your son ever used our services?’ asked Kara, following protocol. She knew perfectly well that the boy had never stepped foot inside their doors.

‘No, of course not. We only just found out.’ The woman pushed her son toward the counter. ‘Here, tell her,’ she said to him.

With a pudgy hand, the boy pushed a tuft of fringe off his pocked forehead. ‘Yeah, my aunty says we’re Aboriginal,’ he muttered. ‘And that we can get stuff … you know, for free.’

Kara looked to the woman, waiting for her to scold the boy. As unscrupulous as the Johnny-come-latelys were, they were rarely so open about their intention to scam benefits. The woman just stared back at Kara, eyebrows raised in question.

Here we go again.

Her manager was lurking, and Kara knew — and resented — that he expected professionalism from her in the face of such crap.