Almost immediately after leaving their property, they were enveloped in scrub. Cool green dogwood and musk, and the cak-cak-cak-cak of a native hen. The sounds of the town were lost behind them as the ground rose, rocky and heady.

They climbed. The harsh cries of the native hen mixed with a forlorn-sounding kookaburra, a loner up high in the ghostly white gums. This whole place felt haunted – Murphy had always hated this walk as a kid, whenever Dad had made him hike up here when he was too lazy to check the crop himself. Dad had known how much it scared him, so it was one of his favourite punishments, other than belting the shit out of him.

Butch seemed to read Murphy’s thoughts. ‘What do you reckon Dad would tell us to do?’ he said, voice hushed, subconsciously respectful of the sacred quiet of the bush.

‘He’d probably be out here, night and day, looking for her,’ said Murphy. ‘A beer in one hand and the shotgun in the other.’

His mind flashed to the Glock now stashed in his bedside drawer.

‘What about Sara?’

Murphy was silent for a moment. ‘Don’t know.’

They both bent down to all fours to scale a slope of scree, fingers in the slated rock.

‘Wish she was here,’ said Butch once they were at the top, upright and getting their breath back.

‘Me too,’ said Murphy. He wafted a spiderweb out of his way as they pushed through a copse of white gum and dogwood, a wallaby trail. Then: ‘I dreamed about her last night.’

‘Yeah? She say anything?’ said Butch.

‘Nothing.’ Murphy’s feet squelched over rotting gumtree bark, wet and slippery. ‘Just smiled.’

‘That’s a good sign,’ said Butch.

‘Yeah,’ said Murphy.

Another stretch of silence. A brown wren flitted onto a fallen branch, its yellow eye on Murphy.

‘You’re a strong man, Murph,’ said Butch. ‘I dunno if I’ve ever told you that.’

‘I’m not,’ said Murphy instantly. ‘I’m weak as piss.’ His voice caught. ‘I fell apart after she died – you were there, you saw it. Everything went down the shitter. Lost the landscaping business, the house. I wasn’t even there for Jasmine —’

‘You have always been there for Jaz. Always,’ said Butch. ‘Don’t say that. Every presentation night. Every netball training. Every bloody tantrum. Whenever she needed a chat you dropped everything. You were – shit, I don’t know – you were there for her feelings. You’re a bloody good dad, Murph.’

‘I’m a drug dealer, Butch.’

Butch hesitated. ‘Lad . . . it’s only weed.’