Air quality worse than Beijing, the news said yesterday. Today was clearer but still hazy enough to scratch at your throat and nostrils. His eyes were streaming by the time he reached Dead Man’s Park. His and Lena’s private name for it, since every time they passed Dad would remind them that it used to be a cemetery. Imagine, ten thousand bodies under that dirt a hundred years back. Then council decided a park’d be nicer and the families had to scramble to rebury their beloveds’ bones. Some didn’t bother, Dad said, and so they rested there still beneath the roses and bandstand and playground equipment. Geez, they used to love it, Will and Lena, when a neighbour or friend’s mum would suggest going to the park for a picnic or run-around and one of them—naughty shits—would say, Oh, yeah, Dead Man’s Park? Sure, sounds fun, and the other kids and most of the adults would get all freaked, want to know what they meant.

Dead Man’s Park was heaving with living bodies today. Weird how quickly people adjusted. A week of smoke so thick you can’t see the sky and the first sign of visible blue everyone rushes out to enjoy the day. They’ll all come home clothes stinking of smoke, tell themselves at least there’s no ash streaking their windows, no blackened leaves dropping into their backyards today.

‘Hey! Watch it!’ Will was jolted backwards. A horn blared. A bus sped by a fingers-width from his face. He stumbled, tripped, landed hard on his arse. Pain right up his spine into his jaw.

‘You all right?’ A suited pair of hips in his face.

‘Yeah. I don’t know what—’

‘You almost walked in front of a fucking bus, ya tool!’

Had he? He tried to remember the second before he was pulled back. He was long past the park, almost to Parramatta Road. Looking around he couldn’t tell where he’d got to, couldn’t remember deciding to step onto the road.

‘What street is this?’ he asked.

The suit disappeared. ‘Fuckin’ druggo,’ a voice said.

Standing felt too risky. He might fall. Or walk into traffic again. Next time there might not be a rude but strong businessman to pull him back. Another red bus whooshed past and even here on the footpath he felt its weight and speed. He sucked in huge gulps of air, every one of them like a punch in the tooth. Couldn’t stop shaking. Feet stomped past. If someone called the cops about the quivering, drooling man on the footpath he’d be fucked. Mumbling like a smackhead, someone else’s credit cards shoved in his pocket.