The woman we’ve left behind has a boyfriend or husband waiting for her. Maybe he’s bragging to his mates about how he’s going to be a dad, but she’s lying in a ditch, with mud in her hair and a baby inside who’ll keep kicking until it runs out of oxygen. Surely it has by now.

‘You all right, mate?’ the bartender asks.

‘Yeah, everything’s cool. Just need a beer. And a packet of Marlboros.’ I open my wet leather wallet.

‘Not a good night to be on the road,’ he says. ‘Bridge’ll be underwater in an hour.’

The men mutter agreement.

‘It’s almost covered already. Didn’t think we’d make it across. Your bridge might float away before the night’s over.’ It’s an effort to speak normally. I sit on the nearest stool and the bartender places a cold pot in front of me. He looks at Abby, who’s still standing, and asks if she’d like a shandy. She shakes her head at both the offer of a drink and a seat. I gulp my beer down, the drink of a Bali summer night, the possibility of oblivion.

A grey-haired, wide-jawed man at the far end of the bar speaks up. ‘That bridge’ll outlast you, son. My great-grandfather helped build it. Solid as a bloody rock.’

I raise my hand as if to tip an invisible hat. ‘No disrespect. That’s some real rain out there.’

He lifts his glass and takes a deep slug, putting it down empty. ‘Seen worse.’

‘Next round’s on me.’ I light a cigarette, a Bali cigarette.

‘What do you reckon, Mick?’ the man says to the bartender. ‘One more?’

He shakes his head. ‘All right, but this is your last. Marion’ll rouse on us both, you know that.’

The man shoos away bartender Mick’s worries then beckons him to get a move on. He turns to me. ‘What’s your name anyway?’

‘Charlie. This is my sister, Abby.’

‘I’m Reg.’ He dips his head in Abby’s direction. Abby has only moved a few steps inside the doorway. ‘That’s Benny, Troy. You’ve met Mick, saviour of every man in town.’ He lifts his glass and the bartender smiles.

‘Where were you headed?’ Benny asks.

‘My dad’s place,’ I say. ‘Somewhere . . . thataway.’ I gesture towards the windows.

‘I’d appreciate the key to the room,’ Abby says to Mick. ‘If you don’t mind.’

‘Like some help with your bags?’ he asks.

‘I’m fine. There’s only the two.’

Benny straightens in his seat. ‘Give your sister a hand, son. Show some manners.’

‘I don’t need help.’ Abby hasn’t made eye contact with me since we came inside. ‘Oh! But can I use your phone before I go up?’

Mick inclines his head in the direction of the phone, which is sitting on the bar on its own terry-towelling square, and waves away her offer of money. Abby stands as far from us as she can, stretching the pigtail cord till it’s almost straight while Mick holds the base of the phone so it doesn’t fly off and hit her. When she finishes her call, he says he’ll show her to her room. She leaves the bar with him, and my whole body relaxes.