COVER AND INTERIOR ART: Solidarity by Judith-Rose Thomas.

Book Club & Reader Guide of questions and topics for discussion is available at twodollarradio.com

First published 2021 by University of Queensland Press, Australia.

Aboriginal language in this book is palawa kani—the language of Tasmanian Aborigines.

Anything else? Yes. Do not copy this book—with the exception of quotes used in critical essays and reviews—without the prior written permission from the copyright holder and publisher. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means. We must also point out that this is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to names, places, incidents, or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental or are used fictitiously.

In memory of my beautiful and loving mother,

Deidre Jean Anderson

‘Dee’

(1957–2008)

Born into this

THE OLD TIN MINE

It wasn’t my first survival camp. But when I struck at the 
 damp flint and gouged another piece of flesh out of my knuckle, I swore it would be the last.

‘Fucking … cheap … rubbish.’

Standing too quickly, I stumbled backward, knocking one of the boys over in the process. He fell, sprawling onto the black sand like a four-legged spider. Kneeling too long by the fire had locked up my knees. Old knees. Too old for this shit.

‘I’ll have a go if you like, Ben?’ Chris took my spot next to the small teepee of sticks I’d stuffed with the driest bracken fern I could find. He took up the flint. I turned my back on them and made out I was checking my phone. Inside my pocket, I formed a tight fist, squeezing the pain out of my throbbing hand.

‘I’ve already done most of the fucking work anyway,’ I said over my shoulder.

From the sound of shuffling feet and heightened positivity in the chatter, I figured Chris was having some success with the fire. Looking for somewhere to rest, I sought out his pack amongst those dumped in the middle of our camping spot and sat down on it, hard. Something gave under my weight, followed by a muffled tinkle of glass.

Fuck him. Raytji has no business out here with us anyway.

I looked over when I heard the boys cooing at the first puffs of smoke.

‘There we go, lads,’ said Chris. ‘Just remember what Uncle Ben showed you about making a fire. It can mean the difference between staying comfy and warm and being cold and miserable. Right?’

‘Not to mention being able to eat something now,’ added Jacob, the eldest of the boys. He had assumed the alpha role amongst the others — aided by the accounts of how many guys he’d ‘smashed’ recently — while we’d waited for the Cessna at the dusty airstrip.