No reply. So I walk through the house, the rifle at my shoulder, taking aim at every doorway and cupboard. No one reveals themselves or makes a break for the pitch-black night.

I lean the rifle against the couch, take my boots off, and lie down. Eventually I sleep, or I think I sleep. The line between being awake and not awake is blurred by dreams that lurch across the line of reality.

7

7

It is mail day, but I don’t get to the mailbox until well after lunch, when I’ve fed and watered the dogs and given them a run. In the mailbox is a rates notice, a mail-out from my local politician, a bank statement, a phone bill, and two more boxes. I have a good mind to put them all in a pile and burn them. I take them home, and take all of the boxes out of the ute and put them in the laundry. Whatever is in the new boxes, I don’t want to know. I will look at them another day when I am feeling more resilient. Now I don’t even know why I’m going to the trouble of checking my mail. It always turns out to be a disaster.

I shut the laundry door, check my phone, and realise that, sometime in the past few days, Sarah has sent me a text saying that she and Lucy are coming to visit on the day that turns out to be today. They are going to stay in town, but she would be happy if I was around when they were. I’m thinking that visiting your son’s grave with your new girlfriend, alongside your old husband, is kind of insane, although insane ideas have become dime a dozen around here, so I can’t really complain. But when I see our car, the white four-wheel drive that has become Sarah’s, coming towards the house, I do have the feeling that crazy has come to town. And yet it is the least of my problems. The idea of seeing Sarah, no matter who she is with or why, makes me feel better. I know I will be jealous and probably erratic in my response to both of them, but still I welcome Sarah’s arrival.