To get from Chinchilla to Dad’s farm we need to travel past the crashed car. We’ve only been driving for a short while, though, when we see a tow truck coming towards us. I pull over to the edge of the road so it can pass while Charlie twists around to watch the wreckage of the Holden dragging behind the truck. I listen to the gravel being flicked up by the truck wheels. It’s the sound dry rice makes when it hits the bottom of a saucepan, plastic peas churning inside Sarah’s favourite toy dog as she drags it across the floor, grit going into the vacuum cleaner near the kitchen door.

‘What are you doing? Abby?’

I pull the car back onto the road, roll down the window to a blast of hot wind.

We don’t speak again until we get to the bottom of Dad’s driveway. My mind is racing as I park in front of the metal milk can Dad has painted lime green and nailed onto a post as his letterbox. Charlie opens the gate. The driveway winds a few times and goes up a steep incline before the gum trees lining it on both sides give way to a cleared expanse and we can see the house.

‘Okay, we need to be normal, talk about Bali and Christmas and the kids. Make sure you say something nice about his garden. You could mention the chicken pen. And the new water tank. He’ll have installed that by now.’

‘Cool it, Abby. You sound like you’re on speed.’

‘Charlie, look.’

A police car is parked near Dad’s open front door. I pull up behind it and turn off the engine.

‘Do you think they’re asking locals about the accident?’

My nerves are on high alert. ‘That makes sense. Or else they’re here because of the robbery, the stolen ring.’

He stares at the house. ‘What if the police being here is nothing to do with her? What if Dad had a heart attack?’

‘A heart attack? What are you talking about?’

Charlie leaves the car, slams the door. I hurry out, too, and rush after him. We stand in the doorway calling out ‘Dad’ and ‘We’re here’, and jostling to get inside first.

‘Living room,’ Dad replies. His voice is small. He is standing next to a policeman and looks scared and deflated, a soft balloon of himself. He’s wearing such a long frown it’s as though the edges of his mouth are pulling his whole body towards the ground.

The policeman is schoolboy young. He nods in our direction. No one speaks until Dad sees Charlie, whose presence jolts him from his trance. ‘Son.’ He lurches forward and hugs Charlie in an unusually large show of affection. The policeman turns to me.

‘Constable Roberts.’

‘Abigail Campbell. That’s our dad.’

I touch my father’s wiry arm. ‘Dad, what’s happening? Are you okay?’

Charlie seems unable to extricate himself, so I unhook Dad and lead him to the couch. Dad loves this couch, this knobbly mess of orange, beige and green stripes, with big buttons and wide arms. There’s a copy of a Frederick Forsyth novel on the carpet next to the chair; maybe he was reading when the police showed up. I sit beside him and hold his hand.