Dad walks out of the house carrying a book that he hands to me, a copy of C. S. Lewis’s The Problem of Pain. ‘Kids’ books.’ He snorts.

‘Narnia is for kids,’ I say in my defence.

‘Read it,’ he says, then takes the front seat.

As we pull away, I watch Lenny through the back window, running after another turkey. Dude owns the place.

Once we’re on the road to Brisbane, Dad says he wants to see where Skye’s car ran off the road. ‘Keep an eye out for the police ropes. They’ve cordoned off the area.’

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ Abby asks.

‘Yeah, Dad, probably not.’ If it was up to me, Abby would drop the accelerator to the floor on that stretch of road. ‘I think we should head straight to Abby’s place.’

‘You’ll pull over when we see the ropes.’

When we arrive at the site of the accident, Abby stops as instructed. Dad climbs out and stands on the edge of the road, staring down into the ditch. I walk over and stand beside my father, feeling a rush of nausea and fear.

There are ragged wounds in the bark of the tree where the metal cut into the wood, and flecks of glass near the trunk, but the scrub is already closing in, obscuring the skid that led from the road to the tree. If not for the ropes and scarred tree I wouldn’t know this was the place. I wonder if the animals who live nearby remember that night? Do bandicoots and kangaroos stay clear, or is every day a fresh start for them?

I scan the surrounding bushland. There’s nowhere Skye could’ve pointed the car that would’ve left her unharmed. Had she hit a smaller tree or come towards this one at a different angle, she might’ve walked away with a head injury. Maybe.

I watch my father as he looks from the tree to the road and back again, pushes his hat a bit higher off his forehead. I pray he doesn’t go down there, into the ditch, down where Abby sat in the mud beside Skye, where the baby tumbled and died. I owe Dad this moment, but I can’t wait to get away from here.

‘She was a safe driver,’ he says. ‘Car was in good nick. Road’s not wide but she was on a straight. It hadn’t started raining if her window was down, so the road wouldn’t have been slippery. And she was used to watching for kangaroos.’ He frowns. ‘I don’t understand what went wrong.’

I shove my hands deep into my pockets. ‘Guess we’ll never know.’

CHAPTER TEN

Wednesday 11 December 1974

Abby

The mechanic checks the water and oil and fills the tank. Dad wanders off in search of the toilet. He’s even more gaunt than usual. During the past week I’ve offered him every type of food, but he regards my meals as a sick animal would: with suspicion or indifference. None of us is eating much right now though.