He walked up as quietly as he could, moonlight streaming through the branches overhead. He came to the entry to the property––a sad letterbox atop a fence post, long stretches of barbed-wire fence on either side, the cattle grid beneath his feet. He trod over it carefully, so as not to wedge a foot between the gaps. Then the crunch of gravel. He looked up. Still no lights, no sign of movement, no noise beyond the trees rustling in the breeze and the blood pumping through his ears. He walked off the driveway and onto the grass.

He approached the shed, keeping a wary eye on the house all the while. He rounded the back and found what he was looking for leaning up against the wall: an old wheelbarrow, darkened patches in the night indicating rust. Wooden handles. He lifted it onto its wheel and started pushing, and stopped immediately: the loud squeaking threatened to wake the entire family. His eyes froze on the house. He imagined the light coming on and out of the darkness stepping Ernie, or Brendan, armed with something, aimed at his head, he the pelican lamely flapping its wing. He breathed. Nothing happened.

Vernon stood staring at the wheelbarrow. Then he ventured around the front of the giant shed. The front door was ajar, so he stuck his head in. There on seven long tables were potted plants, standing straight and tall, their leaves dripping moisture in the darkness. An air-humidifier unit was humming somewhere. A wonder the Cahills didn’t shut the front door, keep the air in. Large, flat, hydroponic lights were suspended from the roof. He walked inside, careful not to knock the door upon entry. The plants swayed slightly, as though acclimating to his presence. He reached out a hand to feel the leaves of one.

He noticed a cupboard against a wall and opened it, turning the handle as quietly as possible. The door creaked a little as he pulled it. Plenty of tools in here. A can of old motor oil near the bottom. He took this and didn’t bother shutting the door.

He coated the axle of the wheelbarrow, and the dense blackness of the oil seemed to swallow the moonlight. He squinted to see better, felt the slime coating his fingertips. When he was done he flipped the wheelbarrow back onto its wheel and hesitantly pushed it forward. There was still a squeaking, although it was mostly muffled. He would risk it.

He wheeled the barrow on the grass and thought about what he could do. What choices he had. He had to bloody fix things. Fill the lack he’d left in his family. There were no good ways through, far as he could tell. All that was left was this.

With a great struggle he manoeuvred the barrels into the wheel-barrow. Fortunately both fit at once. Before making the trek back he got into the car and sat for a moment. He opened the glove compartment and took the lighter he had brought and put it in the pocket of his pants. He got out of the car and started his return journey.