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The cop elbowed Brett again. The sixteen-year-old's handcuffs rattled under the table as he clenched his fists. ‘No.'

‘This one's well known to us,' Constable Nelson added. ‘The whole station's been hoping to put him away for a while now but you know what the courts are like. They're not interested in putting them away till they turn eighteen.'

‘Do you have any parents, Brett?' Mary asked.

‘Yer, two,' Gallagher answered. ‘They split up a couple of years ago but sorted things through recently. They're good people but they can't handle this one. He runs with a bad crowd — half of whom you'll get to meet sooner or later.'

Sam broke his silence. ‘Do you still go to school?'

‘Yer, he did but —'

‘Brett?' the old man pushed, silencing Gallagher.

Brett looked at the cop, then Sam. ‘No,' he said.

‘Any reason why?'

‘I hated it.'

‘Why's that? Was it the other kids?'

‘No.'

‘The work?'

‘No.'

‘How about the teachers?'

‘What do
you
think.'

‘Do you have a job?'

‘No.'

‘Have you been offered one?'

‘
No
.'

‘Do you know what you want to do?'

He shrugged. ‘Anything that pays a lot of money.'

Gallagher snorted. ‘Don't they all. No-hopers like this one will never get a job because —'

‘I don't think you should be calling Brett a no-hoper —'

‘— they're always in places like this one.'

Brett swallowed the last bite then pushed his plate away. ‘I've had enough,' he said, and he didn't mean the food.

‘So have we,' Gallagher added, taking the opportunity to leave. ‘We'd better be off.' Then rising
from their chairs, the cops thanked Sam and Mary for lunch again.

‘You sure you won't stay?' Mary asked.

The pig glanced at Brett with a grin. ‘We're sure. You'll have your hands full anyway looking after the boy.' He chuckled quickly through his snout before he and Constable Nelson followed Mary to the front door. Brett sat in the kitchen until Sam “encouraged” him to see the police off too.

‘Bye,' the cops said, waving.

‘Wait!' Sam called out, just as they settled back into the wagon. ‘You'd better unlock these.' He lifted Brett's handcuffs for the officers to see.

They looked at each other then laughed before Senior Constable Gallagher walked back up the steps. ‘We were hoping you wouldn't notice,' he joked.

‘All the same, take them off him please.'

Sam's moustache rolled over his lip, hiding an unamused frown. The cop looked up and lost his smug grin when he didn't find it mirrored. With a twist, he unlocked the handcuffs then snapped them back on his belt. Blood rushed back into Brett's wrists and he cracked them backwards and forwards to get the stiffness out.

‘We'll see you round,' Gallagher said, not-so-
friendly this time. ‘You too, Dalton, in three months, I reckon.' Then, dipping his cap, ‘Mary.'

From the verandah, Sam, Mary and Brett watched the wagon disappear back towards the main road. Finally, Sam turned to Brett and said, ‘C'mon. I'll show you round the property.'

Throwing his bag over his shoulder, Brett followed Sam along a gravel path towards the U-shaped building. It was a single-storey, giant slab of grey concrete with windows set unevenly apart into the walls. A sign above the doorway announced it as The Boys' House. They walked into a large room, cool and empty, though it looked like a lot of kids had been there recently. Books, basketballs, guitars, magazines, comics and unfinished card games lay about the floor as if the occupants had cleared out in a rush. There were a few frayed green couches and beanbags to sit on, a clunky old TV to watch and a pool table. Again, nothing worth nicking though.

‘This is the common room,' Sam said matter-of-factly. ‘It's where a lot of the guys spend their spare
time. Some nights we use it for meetings. I don't mind you coming in here during the day just as long as you don't start throwing a ball round or eat in here. Like the rest of The Boys' House, I don't want it getting messy. Any questions?'

Brett shook his head and, satisfied, Sam moved on.

The next room was big too. There were about fifty chairs seated around eight tables. Over in one corner was a stack of plastic trays and serviettes. In another, large jugs marked ORANGE JUICE and WATER. But they weren't what attracted Brett's eye. It was the walls. They were decorated with murals of cars, cities and people, and graffiti pieces. The bright colours warmed the jail grey and gave the place character. Brett wasn't good at art himself but he knew what he liked — and he liked this.

In the middle of the piece on the far wall was a large serving window where everyone collected their meals. Behind it was the kitchen, which stank of greasy bacon and burnt fried eggs being soaked off the pan in dirty dishwater. Metal ovens, sinks, mops and bins cluttered the white tiled room as well as benches stacked with boxes of packed food. And yep, there was one marked BAKED BEANS. Brett felt his bowels churning already. Casually, he looked over
the serving counter and saw a number of mousetraps. Great. At least now he knew what was in the meat dishes.

‘This is where you eat,' Sam said in his state-the-blatantly-obvious voice again. ‘Breakfast is at seven. Lunch at twelve. And dinner at seven. Don't be late or you'll miss out. Like everyone else you'll line up to be served at the window then take a seat at one of the tables. Once you've finished you'll put your tray in the kitchen sink then do your share of the chores.'

‘Why?'

‘Because everyone helps out here. Some nights you'll be on kitchen duty; others on cooking or garbage duty. You'll find what you're doing on this roster. Make sure you read it.'

Sam handed Brett a clipboard. Brett glanced at the roster then tossed it away. No chance.

The pair turned left and continued down a corridor painted with more murals. Still scouting for something to pinch, Brett looked inside each room they passed. Most were small classrooms with seating for about ten guys. There was nothing new about that. He'd seen the insides of classrooms for eleven years now (when he wasn't asleep that was). There were a few finds though, including the computer room and radio studio. The computers were old but
functioning; the radio station small but well-equipped. But the most interesting thing was that there weren't any people in the whole building. When Brett looked round the common room and kitchen he just thought everyone was in their cells. But the corridors were quiet too. Unless everyone was asleep, they weren't here.

Brett wondered why but wasn't going to ask Sam. He was the enemy, and you never got friendly with the enemy.

They rounded the last bend of the “U”. From the looks of this section it was the living quarters. There were no bars on the windows and all the doors were open. Nothing to keep the prisoners in their cells. He scanned for infra-red beams or hidden cameras but found none. They couldn't be so stupid as to put so much trust in a bunch of delinquents, could they? Then again a lot of things here didn't seem normal. No bars or locks on doors. No handcuffs. No guards. No prisoners. Just him and a man taking a tour like it was the first day at a new school.

Sam pushed open a door at the end of the corridor to reveal a small bedroom. There was a limited amount of furniture inside: a mirror, desk, two sets of drawers, a lamp, a few shelves and two beds — one a mess and the other made. By the looks of
it, the room's only occupant had been living by himself for a while. His clothes snaked out of a set of drawers and onto the floor in a trail of shorts and shirts. A plate of brown apple cores rotted away under his bed — no doubt to feed the mice. And big action movie posters of big action movie posers covered the walls. Whoever was unlucky enough to be put in with this guy would probably drown under all the mess.

‘I hope you like it,' Sam said. ‘This is your room. Number seventeen.'

Brett stopped.

‘The bed's made. There are spare sheets down the hall if you need them. Lights out is at nine o'clock. The wake up call is at six. Between —'

‘This is
my
room?' Brett said, eyes bulging.

‘Yes, for the next three months. It mightn't be what you expected but as you've guessed by now this isn't a hotel. You're required to stay in it when I say so and during lights out. As for the rest of the day —'

‘Who's the other guy?'

‘Sorry?'

‘Who's the other guy?'

The old man paused then calmly said, ‘Robbie Scully.'

‘Why can't I have my own room?'

Sam sighed. ‘Because we don't have the space to give everyone his own room.'

‘I don't care. Make some.'

Sam's jaw tightened.

‘Well?' Brett pushed. ‘Do I get my own room or what?'

‘Fine,' Sam said wearily. ‘You don't like the room? There's a spare bed in Trevor, Brad and Matthew's room. You can stay with them.'

He closed the door and started back down the hall. Brett watched him go, waiting for him to stop. But Sam didn't. He was serious.

‘Wait!' Brett called after him. He shook his head. ‘This room's as good as any.'

‘A minute ago you said it wasn't.'

‘Yer, well, I've changed my mind,' Brett growled.

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yeah, I'm sure.'

Sam walked slowly back. He opened the door again. ‘Leave your bag inside. You can unpack later when I've finished showing you round the rest of the property.'

He might've been in a rush but Brett wasn't. Turning his back to Sam, Brett pocketed his lighter and smokes before walking outside.

He stopped at the front door of The Boys' House.
Outside, the temperature boiled; torture compared with the mild temperature inside. He wasn't keen on continuing this tour any further but Sam was. Defying the heat, he stepped outside and walked towards the front of the homestead, the gravel pathway crunching beneath his boots. Brett chased after him. Not that he was giving in; he just had nothing better to do. Besides, he was interested in what valuables were stashed round this place — like a getaway car.

The few men gathered about the stockyard glanced casually in the pair's direction as they walked past. The rest were more interested in the main attraction. A wild horse was charging round the stockyard.

The pair entered the large corrugated shed that opened into more of an oven than a garage. In it were vehicles and farming equipment: a ute, tractor, flat-bed truck, two station wagons (one working, the other half-stripped), shelves of feed, cans of spray paint, metho and the occasional girlie picture. There were also aprons, spanners, oxy welders and jacks.

‘This is the garage,' Sam said. ‘No one is allowed in here unless I say so. It's where we store the cars and teach motor mechanics. It sometimes gets stuffy but
it's cool enough for the motor mechanics teacher, Mr Rhodes, to hold a few classes during the day.'

Brett looked round half-interested but nothing appealed to him. The pair left the garage then walked back along the driveway. Brett noticed something strange. The whole property was ringed by three-railed wooden fences except at the main entrance where there was only open space. There was nothing — no gate, no barbed wire, no guards — stopping him from passing through it. He could easily make a run for it.

‘What are you looking at?' Sam asked.

‘Nothing,' Brett answered too quickly. ‘I thought I saw a rabbit.'

‘Wouldn't be surprised. They're everywhere. They're a farmer's worst nightmare, you know. Scientists have tried every disease to get rid of them but they keep coming back year after year —'

Sam blabbed on but shortly dropped the subject when Brett didn't appear interested. So they kept walking.

‘I don't have to wear a uniform here, do I?'

‘No, you're allowed to wear your own clothes.'

‘Good. Some guy at court told me I had to wear one like any other prisoner.'

‘This isn't a prison.'

‘A detention centre then.'

‘This isn't a detention centre either,' Sam said. ‘It's more of a halfway house for young guys like you who come from backgrounds —'

‘Yer, I know. Guys in trouble with the law.'

‘Not necessarily. Some have been arrested and sent here, like yourself. Some have family problems. And some are here because they want to be here.'

‘
Want
to be here?'

‘Yes. They can't help themselves, so they ask us to instead.'

Brett rolled his eyes. Yer, right.

‘What do
you
do here then?'

‘Mary, myself and the teaching staff try to give you a new start.'

‘How?'

‘By teaching you new skills and helping you get a better education so you can get a job. Didn't the magistrate tell you any of this?'

‘No.'

Sam looked at Brett sceptically. But this was all news to him. The magistrate hadn't told him he was going to a halfway house. Just a low security correctional facility. Brett had thought that had meant a prison. But obviously he'd been wrong. The Farm was some kind of school camp. Some guys
came here because they wanted to? C'mon. The sun was roasting more than this man's hat.

The pair had passed back by the stockyard when Sam spoke again. ‘We have four main rules here. Number one: no fighting. Number two: no leaving the property. Number three: my decision is final. And number four —'

Brett pulled a cigarette from his top pocket and stuck it between his lips. He raised the lighter and —

‘Hey! That's mine!'

‘— no drugs,' the old man finished.

‘What did you do that for?'

‘It's Farm rules. Now give me the packet.'

‘No. It's mine.'

‘Hand over the pack,' Sam warned, stretching out his palm this time.

Brett crossed his arms. But Sam's eyes glazed over with familiar boredom like he'd lived this scene a thousand times. The stand-off lasted a full minute before Brett cursed under his breath and slapped the cigarettes hard into Sam's hand.

‘And the lighter.'

Brett shook his head. Talk about a police state.

Sam pocketed the cigarettes and lighter then asked, ‘What's the first rule?'

Brett jammed his hands into his jeans and looked away.

‘Brett, what is the first rule?'

And a third time.

‘No fighting, all right,' Brett said.

‘What's the second?'

Brett ignored him again.

‘Brett, what-is-the-second-rule?'

‘No-leaving-the-property,' he mocked Sam's tone.

‘Good. The third?'

‘Your decision is final.'

‘And the —?'

‘No drugs,' Brett breathed out, tired of being lectured to.

‘Okay,' Sam said. ‘Now you know them, I want you to live by them. When I say no smoking I mean no smoking. If you're caught again, expect to be punished. Understand?'

‘Yes,' Brett groaned.

‘I hope you do. You and everyone else here are entitled to certain privileges if you obey those rules. That might include attending video nights, joining in sports matches or earning some rewards round here. If you break the rules then you're excluded from those privileges. And if it's a serious breach then the whole Farm is grounded. And a
lot of the guys here don't like it when that happens.'

Finished preaching, Sam led the way towards the two wooden structures — the stables and the skeleton of a new building recently set into the ground. Brett followed him scowling and cursing.

‘What's that supposed to be?' he asked sourly, wanting to say a lot more.

‘We're building a new stable,' Sam said. ‘The old one's too small. Some of the boys are helping put it together. It's taking some time but they enjoy the work. Of course they get paid in chocolate and chips which helps.'

‘Is that the old one?'

Sam nodded. ‘C'mon. I'll show you inside.'

Brett followed Sam into the old stable which smelt of warm leather, hay, must, horses and yep, fresh green cakes. The stalls were occupied by eight horses who munched, flicked, neighed and snorted as the pair walked by. The animals had all been hosed down recently leaving the cobbled floor wet. Sam checked each drinking trough to see if it was full. Brett looked at the animals with a pang of sympathy.

Sam reached over and rubbed the nose of a chestnut-coloured mare. The horse
brufff
ed at his touch then warmed to it. Brett walked on, scouting the rest of the stables. Only half of it was devoted to
the horses. He was interested in what was at the far end.

What he found was a woodwork room. Wooden shavings curled like worms in a yellow carpet of sawdust at the base of the lathes, sanders, electric saws and bins containing off-cuts of timber. Half-finished furniture sat on bench tops locked in sash clamps. Jars of lacquer reeked from shelves on the walls, and boxes of nails, screws, washers and bolts were stored next to a blackboard. Brett recognised most of the tools from his own high school woodwork classes — the only subject he ever got an “A” in. He was impressed by the set-up, but he didn't let his face show it.