Jack thought hard about the third wish. Wishing for a million dollars never ended well in books, and this might be his last wish, if he got any at all. He could wish for a truck of his own and leave this awful place. But the fun of thinking about wishes had worn off. He was almost sick with tiredness and fury and the lingering fright of falling. Mostly, although he wasn’t sure later whether he said it aloud or if that even mattered, he wished his uncle could get as big a fright as he had. Or worse.

Jack fought his way out of the cypress forest. The air was silver-grey, and he heaved himself over the old gate to stagger in the sharp, night-bright grass on the other side. His bare foot was sore, the climb had broken up the scabbing blood on his leg, and his mum would be worrying. Jack tried not to feel sorry for himself. He’d heard Old Pinnicke, when he was young, had been rolled on by a horse and dragged himself through the bush for three days until he found help. “Never been the same since, of course,” the story had ended, which was hardly comforting. Besides, Jack couldn’t imagine Old Pinnicke ever having been young.

Odd, he realised belatedly, that after all Uncle Davy’s complaining, his uncle had paused to shut the gate.

Ahead, faint in the moonlight, were two fading lines where the ute’s tyres had brought them across the paddock. He could track them back, he’d read about trackers, or … He looked down at the dirt, and along the fence on each side. There had been a firebreak there once, wide as a track, although it hadn’t been kept up—the fencer in Jack disapproved—and he could see a broken bush where his uncle must have turned the ute aside, leaving. That would be the way to the road.

Pleased with himself, Jack jog-limped along, ignoring the sounds of the night, which seemed louder there than they had in the pines. Just the wind hissing in the grass, birds shifting in the saplings, pademelons leaving their tussocks for the night. A distant thumping—trucks on a rough road, or a pump. Not his heart—too metallic.

He would have missed Davy Spicer’s ute if it weren’t for the smell of oil and rubber acrid on the cool breeze. It had plunged into a dip on the side of the track, among the trees; fence wires, loose around it, hummed on the air.

Jack stood on one foot for a long time. The engine pinged under the hood, and metal scraped like fingernails. Unbreathing, he edged up to the ute. Its windscreen was white with starred glass and moonlight.

He was glad he hadn’t wished for a truck.