I take one beer out of the fridge, and down it. What if they don’t have the wrong address? Who would be hoping to pick up boxes at my address? I hardly even notice the first beer going down. When I’m finished, I look at the bottle a couple of times to make sure it really is all gone. What if the other Dave Martin really is missing a box of play money and has nothing to do with all of this?

In the past year, nobody has lived here except me: before that, Sarah, James, and me, and before that, me, my father and mother. Mum got early-onset Alzheimer’s, but died much more quickly than expected. Dad eventually moved to the nursing home, and gave up. This was significantly painful, but ten years ago, and there’s been plenty of pain to swamp it since. So there’s no one here who could be hoping to receive parcels. If they’re not meant for the other Dave, either it’s someone who lives nearby, or they have been deliberately sent to me. Why would you send money to a busted-arse farmer? He’s likely to spend it, or tell the police, or do a bit of both. I open another beer. There’s no reason why not. Reasons for anything escape me.

I take all the boxes back to the mailbox, struggling to keep the ute on the road because the flat tyre is dragging sideways. A storm is developing in the south, and I know if it comes in, it will ruin the boxes. The rain will soften the cardboard, and with a little pressure the sides will fall apart, leaving the bricks of money. I put them all in the ute, and decide to put them out when this change moves through. I must be preoccupied, because out of nothing a vehicle glides in alongside me. Ian Blent, unmarked and smiley, winds down his window, and sticks a big, gnarled paw on the doorframe.

‘Looks like you suddenly got popular, Davo.’ One finger lazily indicates the boxes.

I push my beer bottle out of sight. ‘Huh? Yeah.’ Ian is one of the good guys on the planet. He is Ben Ruder’s neighbour on this side, and he still talks civilly to Ben, which probably makes him a saint. He is Mandy’s husband. I’ve always thought I’d like to be better friends with him, but we never saw him about that much. Different friends, different parties. We talk about the season, and the weather, and he curses cattle prices. It is calming. I think again about how we didn’t try harder to make a link with him.

‘Your tyre’s a bit soft.’ He doesn’t bother to indicate which one.

I say, ‘Yeah,’ and nod, but don’t bother with the ludicrous explanations that come to mind.