Murphy turned back to his work, taking the sealed ziplock bag and slapping a sticker onto it – one of the ‘THE CAPTAIN’ stickers they’d bought in bulk online at The Mad Hueys – that now identified it as the best bush bud in Northern Tasmania. Even though identifying their product was risky, it had the added benefit of shoving it in the face of Sergeant Doble, their rival and constant pain in the arse, who seized as much of their product out on the streets as he could.

‘What makes you think I’m not in her pants already?’ said Murphy.

‘Dad, gross.’

‘Ayyy, Murphy, I had dibs,’ said Butch, winking at Jasmine.

‘And don’t think that if you miss the bus I’ll let you off,’ Murphy continued loudly. ‘I’ll still drive you up.’ He flashed a white smile with crooked teeth. ‘Just in my undies. I’ll even hop out to kiss you goodbye in front of all your little girlfriends.’

‘You’re such a creep. Please, Dad, it won’t matter if you tell them I’m sick or something . . .’

Murphy glanced her way, pausing. Her pale face, mouth a little too tight; up on her toes like she was about to fly out the window. ‘Jasmine,’ he said finally. ‘It’s only one night. Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’ll still be right here when you get back.’

‘Dad, I’m not —’

‘Sweetheart, I’m not going anywhere. I promise.’

Jasmine’s sadness turned to something else, cold and resigned. ‘Fine.’ She lifted one of the bags out of the box, pinched between two fingers. ‘Then I’m taking one of these.’

He took it from her hand. ‘Nice try.’

‘Hypocrite. Uncle Butch said you took weed to all your school camps.’

‘Shhh,’ said Butch in a loud stage whisper.

‘If you come back with even a whiff of it, you are grounded until you’re thirty-eight,’ said Murphy, glaring at Butch. ‘Your uncle should keep his mouth shut.’

‘Maybe I exaggerated, Jaz,’ said Butch. ‘As I remember, he wasn’t always smoking: sometimes his lips were attached to one of the Lindsay girls, and not always her —’

‘Ew!’ Jasmine squealed. ‘I’m going!’

She pulled her camping pack over her shoulders. She picked up Myrtle from the floor and rubbed her face against the cat’s, singing a few lines from James Blunt’s ‘Goodbye My Lover’. Myrtle meowed, and Jasmine squeezed her once more before she let her back onto the ground.

‘Just so you know, Dad, I don’t think Miss Ellis is your type. Love you!’ Jasmine slammed the door behind her: not out of anger, but because slamming it was the only way to get the dicky door fully closed.

‘She gets that from you, dickhead,’ said Murphy after a moment. He weighed out the next ounce.