And then I see the reflection of lights glowing on the road as they approach my house. I hadn’t thought anyone would come at night because I had figured it would be too confusing in the dark if you’ve never done it before. It’s not like a town street with lights, evenly spaced housing and regular contours. All the advantage is mine. But now it’s happening and I don’t have a plan for it. If I drive down they’ll see me before I can find out who they are. It’s dark, and the moon is slim and weak, and I have about a kilometre and a half to walk, over rocks and tussocks and furrows. But I need to know who they are, so I grab the .22 rifle from the ute, make sure the fire is safe, and set off at a half-run, half-walk, careful of my footing as I watch the headlights arrive and stop at my house. The intruders are not bothering to sneak up on me, but there are no messages or missed calls on my phone from a friend wondering where I am. When I leave the trees, I pull my hat down so my face doesn’t shine in the little light there is from the moon. If they are in my house turning it upside down, I’m not sure what I’ll do. Do I have the guts to pull the rifle on them?

Where the oats paddock finishes, I cross to the garden fence, bent double, and sneak along the edge of the house until I hear the trespassers. I can’t see them, but I know they are standing at the front door. There are at least two of them.

I hear them pull roughly on the door as if they are expecting to have to break a lock, but I never lock my doors, not even now. They find a light switch, and step into my house like old friends.