At the approach to the roundabout on the way out of town, I stop behind a sixteen-wheeler flatbed truck with a bogie drive. The truck driver is being overly cautious, but you can’t complain about that. Then I feel something nudge me from behind. I’m not even sure if I really feel it, but when I turn around, I see Ben in his old ute, grinning, sticking a finger up at me. He uses all the steel in his old machine to push into me, and I begin to skid towards the back of the truck. I jam the footbrake on, and then the handbrake, and I almost stop. I don’t give Ben the pleasure of seeing me scream at him. I can smell rubber and asphalt. Then my ute lurches forward until the tyres catch and hold for a moment before letting go. I slide, and the back of the truck rises before me like a cliff face. I’d jam the ute into reverse, but shifting through neutral might make things worse. I don’t have any alternative except to jump out, but that feels like it would be a sort of cowardice. My ute moves again and draws level with the tray of the truck. If Ben pushes hard enough I will slide in under the tray, and the front of my vehicle will crumple, and maybe I will, too. Ben is still pushing, and I can hear how hard his machine is working. And then, as if there was never anything to worry about, the truck takes off and leaves me, the slow guy in the fast lane, behind. Ben retreats and then swings out past me, blowing his horn as he goes.

10

10

As I turn at my mailbox, I see the lid partly open, suggesting that someone has left me something. I stop, open it, and see two more boxes, the same as the last two. I slam the lid shut, and sit back in the ute with my hands on my head. More boxes. More fucking boxes. Does this mean more dead people? More money? Did Grant put them in on his way back, or has someone else dropped them off? I agree with myself that I will not think about this. I put them in the back, and drive home. I leave the boxes in the laundry, and then set about organising myself for Elaine’s arrival.

When she takes a seat at my kitchen island, she looks fully repaired. But in response to a question about how she feels, she claims the wrist is still sore, and displays a support that irritates her. To me, she is back to her beautiful self, almost haughty. She sips at her wine (white), and asks me how I’ve been.

‘Messy,’ I tell her, and begin to apologise for walking out and not being around to protect her.