The sound of voices cut Fyfe off. They were approaching from the north and getting louder, closer. He gestured at Sparrow to go deal with them.

Sparrow trotted off, weaving his way through the gums like his ancestors had, moving silently across the fallen bark to the space where the creek refused to run. Fyfe looked around for a place to sit; finding none, he eased himself achingly onto the dry ground. Sucking thoughtfully on a long blade of grass, he watched a flock of mynas roam the oval, introduced pests looking for trouble, flexing their feathered muscle. Above, sulphur-crested cockatoos spiralled high on the morning’s thermals with barely a flicker of their wings. The sun was impossibly white now, its early yellow glow intensified until it lost all colour, the mercury rising a degree a minute.

Sparrow reappeared. ‘Just a coupla teenagers.’

‘Wait here.’ Fyfe stood, knees cracking. ‘I’ll grab the tarp from my car. Cancel the ambo.’

He retrieved the big blue sheet. He’d only just rinsed it clean the previous day, using it to transport drunks found by the roadside.

Fyfe and Sparrow cut her down carefully and slid the plastic tarp under her body. They lifted it with zero effort, her slim frame about the same weight as the tarp. When she was in place in the back of Fyfe’s four-wheel drive, Sparrow returned for the shopping trolley.

‘See you at the station,’ Fyfe said, turning his steering wheel in the direction of the hospital. ‘Lock the doors. Don’t do anythin’ yet, ya hear? Nuthin’. Wait till I get there.’

Sparrow nodded. ‘I’ll inform her next of kin, though.’

‘Yeah, do that. But only that.’

‘Okay.’ Sparrow waited a beat, then added, ‘There’s gonna be trouble, eh…’

‘Yeah, I know.’

Fyfe drove to Cobb Base Hospital and parked in his discreet spot reserved for drop-offs. After he rang the buzzer, it was some time before the heavy double doors swung open. An orderly, an Aboriginal elder, stepped forward, tugging on his matted grey beard, pushing a gurney. He coughed into his hand and flicked a cigarette butt over Fyfe’s shoulder.

Words weren’t needed. Both men knew the drill. Fyfe led the orderly to his car, and together they loaded the tarp onto the gurney. The elder handed Fyfe a clipboard and pen, and lit another smoke to wait for the paperwork. The sergeant’s handwriting was illegible, but the orderly cared little. He tossed the clipboard onto the tarp with no regard and wheeled the gurney back inside.

Fyfe went home to shower. The water around his feet turned a murky brown. He shaved and changed into a fresh shirt. He drank strong black instant, the bitter brew burning his mouth. Persistent grinding had worn down his teeth to nubs. His wife remained snoring.