As she watched Daisy for signs of possible brain damage she heard the sound of the back door slamming open. Her father striding over to her. His rages never normally spilled this far. At least not lately. As he approached he slowed his stride, was almost gentle as he opened the door to the coop.

She looked up at him. ‘What were you yelling about?’

He got awkwardly down on his haunches. His knees were a constant complaint. He put his hands on them and beckoned her over.

She shook her head.

‘I’m all better. I’m not mad anymore.’

She didn’t move. So he rolled forward onto his knees, his ankles squished beneath, hands on his thighs.

‘We were yelling . . .’ he said. ‘I was yelling at your mother because we need to do something and she wasn’t listening.’

Sharon still didn’t move. ‘What do you need to do?’

‘We need to give these chickens to Mr Oxley.’

Sharon looked around at her brood. Looked at Daisy. Mr Oxley was the butcher. ‘Why?’

‘Because we don’t have much money and he said he’d give us a few bucks for them.’

‘How much?’

‘It doesn’t matter. We need the money.’

‘You could stop buying beers.’

She knew she’d gone too far the moment she said it. Her father’s face quickly twisted, the fury within him manifest in his clawed hands. He scrambled up from his position, groaning. She raced from him, ducking. He caught her around the waist.

‘You little bitch,’ he said. ‘Just like your mother.’

‘Let me go!’

‘Just like her, aren’t you?’

She struggled but had no power, none that could match his. His words became so garbled and furious she couldn’t understand him. Like the grunting of a wombat.

He shoved her against the gate, threw her outside the coop. As she sprawled she saw her mother watching sadly out the window, one hand up against the glass, offering her useless solidarity.

He locked the gate, his finger fumbling with the latch from the inside. She cried out, ran to it, threw herself against it.

‘Dad. No!’

‘Don’t you bloody open it,’ he said. His voice quiet. He walked slowly to Daisy, muttering something about money, complaining women, working his arse off. She hated how gentle he was capable of being. Such falsehood. It was unjust.

He scooped up Daisy. She saw in his back pocket the bulge of the tomahawk he normally used to cut up kindling. He removed it.

‘Dad! You can’t!’

He raised the chicken up for her to see. ‘This is you, right? Too stupid to know its place.’

He turned back from her to her chicken. She shook her head, now he wasn’t watching. She looked at the latch. Daisy’s head jerking from side to side.

‘The trick is,’ he said, ‘you gotta be careful and calm. And get their heads right off quick. You gotta hold ’em, too. Upside down, let the blood out. Hope they don’t wriggle free.’ His calm voice mollifying Daisy. ‘They don’t know they’re dead for a bit. Their body kicks around. Walking around like nothing’s happened.’