We reach the highway as Jaxon chooses another song. A woman’s beautiful voice croons—I can’t understand a single lyric but now I feel like I’m on a boat.

I take out an earbud. ‘What kind of music is this, anyway?’

‘Some people call it slouch rock,’ he says.

‘Weird name,’ I say, turning to look out the window where streetlights are glowing and there’s snow, snow and snow everywhere.

My phone beeps from my pocket and I hit pause on Jaxon’s song.

A message from Paula: Middle of the night but I can’t sleep. How are you, sweetie? Dave’s been a prince, set up the TV in our room, downloaded all the latest chick flicks, I’m living the life. But I’m thinking of you every minute. Good luck with your father.

She’s attached a photo of her lying in bed. She’s not far enough along to show her belly popping out yet. Poor Paula, I know she’s had miscarriages in the past and with an early complication in this pregnancy, she’s meant to stay horizontal as much as possible. She’s even put a limit on making tea, which for her is torture. And I know she’s scared. She’s wanted this baby for a long time.

I send her a heart emoji, a selfie and a bunch of pics from town, and then press play again on the music. It’s rich, layered and totally different to anything I’ve listened to before.

Jaxon’s still leaning forward, now peering at the open map sitting between me and my father.

He and Oliver are total opposites. Oliver’s hair is the colour of maple syrup, his eyes green like wild grass. Jaxon’s black shaggy hair has a slight curl. His dark eyes sparkle when he laughs.

‘Want to hear more? There’s a new band in town, tell me what you think of this.’ He takes his phone and opens YouTube, locates a video and hits play.

The song is rawer, more folky. A male voice sings, or rather speaks in song, kind of like poetry. There’s a trumpet, or is it a saxophone or a clarinet? I can never tell.

‘Like it?’ he asks, watching me closely.

‘Sure.’

‘That’s my band. Trent and I are in the battle of the bands at the local performing arts centre in a couple of weeks.’

‘You play the guitar?’

‘No, Trent’s the guitar pro, I’m the singer.’

‘The lead?’

He smiles. ‘How old are you, anyway?’

‘I’ll be sixteen this week.’

‘You’re going to have your birthday here? Awesome.’

‘Actually, I’ve got something planned for Sky and me,’ my father says.

‘You knew it was my birthday?’ I ask him.

‘Paula mentioned it,’ he says.

Paula, always one step ahead.