‘It wouldn’t live,’ I say. My voice sounds too loud, doesn’t belong here.

‘You don’t know that. She’s seven or eight months. The baby’s still moving.’ She persists a few minutes more then shouts up at me in exasperation. ‘Get down here and help. What is wrong with you?’

‘Let’s go, Abby.’

‘What the hell?’ she yells, now standing upright. Her words cut through the silent night, ricochet between the trees. ‘You are not serious.’

I am though. Usually Abby calls the shots. Older sister, younger brother. But I’ve never felt so sure in such a weird, dark situation. We need to leave. I watch her bend down once more with renewed determination. She holds the woman’s arms and pulls. It’s hopeless. I don’t know why she’s not seeing it. Even with my help we couldn’t get the body to our car.

Abby flicks her head up when rain begins to tap onto the dirt around her. It’s light at first, then quickly becomes insistent and heavy. I stand still, watching my sister. When she’s so wet that her shirt hangs forward like a billowing sail and her hair forms a long slick, when I can smell the leather of my watchstrap, the grease on my scalp, and I can see the woman’s dark nipples through her cheesecloth smock, I shout Abby’s name again. This has to stop.

Abby sits on the wet earth, her head slumped forward. She folds the dead woman’s arms low across her belly, removes a piece of glass from her hair and throws it into the bush.

The crashed car’s headlights go out.

Abby hits the driver’s-side window with her fist until I wind it down.

‘A doctor could save the baby.’ Her voice turns to a plea. ‘We can’t leave her.’

‘Get in the car.’

‘It was an accident. It’s the worse thing not to help her. And what about the ring? Dad must know her somehow. Stop – what are you doing?’

I wind the window up while she presses her fingers down onto the glass, pulling out at the last second. I point to the passenger’s seat but she yells insults at me to the effect that I should never drive again.

I slide over, then glance at the back seat, where I’d put our carton of beer. Crushed empties litter the floor. How many did I have? I resist the urge to open a fresh one.

Abby drops onto the seat, all wet air and fury. She’s about to speak again when she sees where I’m looking.

‘I said two, two. Is that what happened? I thought she’d – I thought she might’ve been asleep. You were asleep?’

‘You were asleep, too.’

‘I was the passenger. My God.’ She rests her forehead on the steering wheel.

‘I’m not that drunk. I haven’t slept in days. It wasn’t my fault.’

She jerks her head up. ‘You can’t possibly think this is anyone’s fault but yours.’

‘You let me drive.’ Even to my ear this is bullshit. She punches me in the arm. I shove her off. She thumps me a few more times then takes a deep breath, stares out the rain-slashed window. ‘How long was I asleep? How far are we from Chinchilla?’