Charlie and I stand a few feet away from the car, in the shade offered by the half-roof of plasterboard and tin above the petrol bowsers. He smokes. I lean against one of the poles holding up the roof and feel the hot metal through my rayon dress.

Not far from the garage, two skinny brown dogs lie in the dappled shade of a stringy tree. One lifts his head to bite at the flies hovering around his nose, and then flops back onto the dirt. I move myself off the pole and peel my dress from the back of my thighs.

‘Eight bucks’ll do it.’ The mechanic drops the hood of the car with a bang. ‘Keep an eye on the oil,’ he says to Charlie.

I give him the exact money and he heads back to the garage. Dad strides the length of the building, still searching for the toilets, not having asked.

‘Have you told Mark yet?’ Charlie asks, dropping the stub of his cigarette onto the ground.

‘I don’t know why you think Mark will have some magic solution I haven’t thought of.’

‘Have you told him?’

‘Please stop asking me that.’ I wipe away the sweat from under my eyes then let my sunglasses drop back down.

‘Don’t you want to talk to him about what we’ve done?’

‘What you’ve done. And no, I don’t want to.’

That’s a lie. It would be a relief to tell Mark, to have him hold me and stroke my hair, say he’ll take care of it. But that won’t happen. When I let Charlie drive I put everything – both of our futures – at risk. This is not Mark’s problem to fix.

I walk away from Charlie. Our looping conversations don’t help anything. Even with endless hours awake every night to think, I can’t find a way to make this situation better. I need to protect Charlie from the police, and Mark, my children, my father from the truth. I need a way to assuage my guilt. And telling Mark won’t solve any of that.

‘Band on the Run’ blares from the garage, where two other mechanics are working on a raised ute. One of them is set to slide himself under the chassis, lying face-up on what I think is a door with wheels; the other one, shirtless, is standing beside him holding a can of soft drink, sweat on his bare chest.

I pace a small circle back to the car and see that Charlie has taken the front seat, though I’d told him that was Dad’s spot for the whole trip. ‘You don’t think you owe him at least –’ I point at the seat.

‘He doesn’t care.’

I sit down behind the wheel.

‘Dad’s not an idiot, Abby. He’s going to work this out. We need to tell Mark. We need advice from someone who’s not involved, someone we can trust.’

‘Dad’s not going to work it out.’

‘Well, aren’t you supposed to tell your husband things – isn’t that the deal?’