He sat. With the radio off he was surrounded by darkness and little else. He wound his window down and breathed in the country air, full of cow manure and hay. He loved this smell. Most of his thoughts were centred on his daughter. He wondered when she would start walking. She’d taken a few small steps already, but had tripped over. He’d tried once to push her on. It had ended up making her cry. They’d been in the kitchen and she had stood up and he’d held out his arms and cooed and sweet-talked her, but her bottom lip had dropped and she’d cried to be picked up. He hadn’t, though. He’d kept on talking to her, urging her forward. Come on there bubba, there’s a girl. That’s the way, that’s it, Amy. Keep going. She hadn’t taken a step, crying for around three minutes, wobbling on her feet, and finally fell heavily on her front, smacking her lips and teeth on the floor, splaying her arms outward. He still felt bad about it.

Sooner than he’d expected, headlights announced a car at the turn-off down the dirt road. Sidney checked his watch. Brendan had been right. Early buggers. They crept forwards slowly. Sidney looked at the glovebox. Out the window he noticed a kangaroo behind trees. It was munching on grass as the car approached, the beams reflected in its gaze so that it too appeared alien, monstrous. It was a big bastard.

The car stopped before him, about two lengths in front. Its headlights winked out. For a moment nothing happened. Then Sidney heard a door open, and footsteps on the dirt. He opened his own door, unbuckled his seatbelt, and got out, the breeze instantly freezing. He shut the door.

‘You Melbourne?’ he asked.

The figure did not respond and in that moment Sidney knew he was in trouble. Then he saw the barrel of a rifle—or was it a shot-gun?—dangled against the figure’s leg.

‘I’m not Melbourne,’ he said. ‘Get back in your car.’

‘Who are you?’

The gun was lifted and pointed at his chest.

‘Car.’

‘Alright, alright,’ Sidney said. He raised his arms and stepped towards his car. ‘Can I open the door?’

‘Bloody get bloody in the car, mate. And sit there.’

Sidney opened the door carefully and slumped in without the aid of his hands. The figure in the dark walked around to the other side of the car and tried the handle, found the door locked. He tapped patiently on the window with the butt of the shotgun. Sidney leaned over and flicked up the lock. The man opened the door and got in.

Sidney put both hands on the steering wheel.

‘What’s your name?’ the man asked. ‘You Sidney?’

‘Who are you?’

‘Are you the one hitting my boy?’ The man shifted in the seat so that the shotgun was resting on his lap and pointing right at Sidney’s thigh. ‘Or you the other one?’

‘I’m Sidney. I don’t know what you’re on about.’