When I reach the Burger family’s mailbox (a small mailbox made of an oil drum, in contrast to the ones I have talked about), which is about halfway between Stony Creek and my place, I turn and drive my ute into the long grass. It takes about ten minutes for Grant’s vehicle to appear, cruising along the road as though he has nowhere he needs to be. I get out and stand at the mailbox so he knows he’ll have to hand out two lots of mail, and not just drop the Burgers’ and leave. As he gets a bit closer he speeds up, and I guess he feels like he’s been caught daydreaming and not focusing on the important job at hand. He keeps the pace up until he’s within about twenty metres of the mailbox, when he suddenly slows. I’m relieved, because it looked like he was going to go right past me.

He freewheels the ute in close to the mailbox, winds his window down, lifts the flap on the box, and drops the mail in. I step up close, ready to explain myself, but he accelerates right past me, his middle finger in the air, his tyres as close to my toes as they can be without crushing them. I watch him head off, ridiculing myself for believing that any plan will go as I expect. Should I chase him? Run him off the road, or stop with him at every mailbox between here and home? But I cool down, and I know a better plan is to follow a hunch I’ve developed.

I drive out onto the road and go back the way Grant came. At the next intersection, I turn left and take the slightly longer way home. Because he has to stop at every mailbox, I can be much quicker than him, but I’m not going to be waiting for him at my mailbox. I’m going to watch him.

The only people I see on the road are old Glen Pye in his Dodge truck moving hay, and a couple of guys on motorbikes on their way through. I approach the Wilson Road turn-off from the opposite direction to Grant. I drive down into an extended hollow in the table drain, and get out. From here, using binoculars that I always keep in my ute, I can see Elaine’s mailbox without her seeing me. I wait.