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Brett heard the rumbling of an approaching freighter, turned round and saw the orange lights ringing its cabin rise over the hill. He stepped onto the road proper to make sure the driver could see him and jerked out his thumb.

UUUURRRRNNNNTTTT
!

The driver palmed his horn long and loud. The freighter continued straight at Brett until he realised it wasn't going to stop! He leapt out of the way, crashed onto the ground and rolled into a ditch as the freighter thundered past in a blast of pig sweat and manure.

His water bottles broken and his clothes wet, Brett coughed and coughed until the overpowering stink was cleared from his nose and lungs. It took him a full minute to do so. When he was finished, he
cursed long and hotly. The word echoed in the quiet, leaving him feeling even more alone. He thumped the grass then clambered back onto the road to keep moving. None of this was part of his plan.

Scabbing a lift had been harder than he'd thought. He'd stuck his thumb out to three cars and two trucks now without success. He reckoned it was because of the way he looked. He was dressed like a fugitive, walked like one, and never smiled — just like a fugitive. Plus Josh gave him this busted jaw with that lucky punch in the bathroom. That couldn't be helping. Every driver that passed him probably thought he was trouble. Brett didn't blame them. He'd think the same thing too.

Buttoning his shirt, he tucked it in and straightened his back to drop the mean look. Clean and neat wasn't his style, but he was willing to look like a dork to get away from Mungindi.

The cops would never find him out here. The country was big and wide and they'd give up chasing him after a while. He was away from the world he hated so much. He was free and happy and wanted to start a new life on his own terms. Not the court's. Not his family's. Not Sam's. But on
his
terms.

Another car zipped past and Brett dropped his thumb. There were fewer cars the further he walked.
Yawning, he checked his watch. 2.21am. No wonder he was so tired. The only sleep he'd had since Sydney was half an hour in the back of a paddy wagon. His stomach roared and he winced in pain. It had been a long time since he'd eaten too. He stopped next to a white road marker and slumped down against it, opening his bag to look for food. The rations he'd stolen ought to last him two or three days. He was worried about getting caught and had just thrown anything he could find in the cupboards into his bag.

Water wasn't a problem, even though he'd just lost his bottles. He could always find a river and camp beside it. Food, however, was. He couldn't go walking into a town for the next couple of days in fear of some local or nosy cop pulling up beside him and asking, ‘Aren't you that missing kid from Mungindi?' And he wasn't going to rely on any primitive instincts to hunt kangaroos or wallabies or whatever types of hamburgers on legs lived up this way.

He pulled out a can of vegetable soup. Great, he snorted, putting it down next to him. At least he'd be eating healthy. Spaghetti? No. Canned tomatoes? No. Baked beans? Definitely not! Ah. That was better. Canned frankfurts. There was some bread in his bag too. He could light a fire, heat them up in the can then —

Then —

Brett chucked his bag away. It
clunk clunk clunk
ed into a ditch beside the road as he hit the ground and cursed. Not only had he left the bread behind; he'd forgotten to grab a can opener! He just shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. How could he have been so —

‘STUPID!'

When the echo couldn't be heard any more and his temper had cooled down, he went after his bag. It had his wallet and his clothes in it. He scooped the cans back inside and slung it on his shoulder again. Who knew? He might come across a discarded can opener at a camping ground or at least a shop that sold them.

As if.

With cramped legs, he stretched to his full height again and readjusted his bag's shoulder strap. There was a grove about two hundred metres away that didn't seem that spooky. He could camp there overnight and hopefully find a river nearby.

White light swept over him and he stopped. He stuck out his thumb and waited for the car to pass but this time he got lucky. A blue convertible with a white stripe down each side indicated and pulled over to the side of the road. He blinked and saw that
it was real. Running up to it, he was all smiles again.

‘Where are you headed?' the twentysomething driver asked, popping open the passenger door.

‘Er, south.'

‘Whereabouts south?'

‘Sydney?' Brett offered.

The driver whistled. ‘That's one long trip.'

Brett knew his destination was a mistake the minute he said it. It would give the cops a place to look. Then again, it could work in his favour. If they were looking in Sydney, while he was elsewhere …

‘Hop in,' the driver said. ‘I'm heading as far as Newcastle, not far from there.'

Brett grinned and said, ‘All right.'

He closed the door and the driver pumped the accelerator in a cloud of dirt and gravel. Within seconds, Mungindi was just another forgotten name on a map.

‘What's in Sydney?' the driver asked.

‘My family.' Brett gave the guy the once over. He was about one hundred-and-seventy centimetres with slick blond hair that curled above his shoulders. He wore blue jeans and a camel-coloured cotton shirt, and sat casually in his seat: one hand on the wheel and the other on the roof. Brett's hand, however, was curled round the door handle. He was
ready to jump out if this guy turned queer on him.

‘You're a long way from home,' the driver said.

‘Yer, I was, er, visiting my aunt. She isn't too well at the moment and I didn't want to ask her for any money for the trip home.'

‘It isn't safe to hitchhike, you know.'

‘Yer, I know. I don't have any other choice though.'

And that was the truth.

‘What's in Newcastle?' Brett asked, changing the subject. ‘It's just as long a hike as Sydney.'

‘Work. Mr Mellor — that's my boss — wants me to get back to the office. Something about a computer error, I think. I don't know. He didn't really explain the problem clearly. I said to him I was on holiday. He said he didn't care if I was in Hawaii — “Get back here now!”. So here I am. Instead of lying in a hammock in Cairns with chicks all round me, I'm on my way home probably to turn the power on.'

Brett half-smiled.

‘Do you mind if I, er, go to Newcastle with you? I mean, if it's not any trouble —'

‘Yer sure. It's going to cost you though.'

Brett's hopes sank. ‘How much?'

The driver shrugged. ‘A couple of bucks for petrol.'

‘That's good because I've only got a couple of bucks.'

The pair grinned, the driver more so than Brett.

When they settled down, the driver swapped hands on the steering wheel and offered a handshake. ‘Oh, by the way I'm James.'

‘Brad,' Brett said, nearly giving away his real name.

‘Nice to meet you, Brad.'

James focused on the road a while as the conversation came to an awkward pause. Brett looked out into the dark countryside and shifted his bag in his lap. The cans were heavy on his legs.

‘You can put your bag in the back if you like,' James said.

‘Yer, okay.'

Brett reached behind him and placed it on the floor. He didn't want to put it on the backseat. The whole car looked like it had just rolled off the production line.

‘I like your car,' he said. ‘What is it? A '68?'

‘'67,' James corrected. ‘And yep, she is great. They don't make cars like Mustangs any more.'

‘Where'd you get it?'

‘I bought it. I've loved classic cars since I was a kid and always promised myself to buy one when I got my first job. Well, I got my first job.'

‘You must take good care of it. It looks brand new.'

‘Yeah, thanks. I do. I was a bit worried about taking her north with me though. The stones and bugs and all that. I thought I might damage her. I'll be glad when I get her back in the garage.'

‘It's a “she” is it?'

‘Yep. And I treat her just like a girlfriend. She's sexy, looks good in blue and knows all the right moves. What's more she doesn't complain when I come home late.'

James laughed and Brett smiled.

‘You got a girl?' James asked.

Brett looked out at the dark countryside. ‘Used to. She left me for some country hick a couple of days ago.'

‘Sorry to hear it.'

‘Well, we weren't exactly going out anymore. It was kind of an on-again, off-again relationship. We kept going out then breaking up. We really only got together when we had no one else to turn to.'

James waved his free hand. ‘Forget about her. You'll meet another one — or three.'

Brett grinned. ‘This week, I hope.'

A green road sign slipped past.
MOREE 95 km.

‘Oh-oh,' James said.

‘What's wrong?'

He tapped the dashboard several times with his finger. ‘It's the engine light. It's blinking.'

‘Is that good or bad?'

‘Bad. I'll have to pull over.'

James slowed the Mustang down before stopping in an empty truck rest bay. There wasn't a property in sight.

‘Wait here,' he said, opening his door. Brett watched him as he walked to the front of the car, his face lit up by the headlights. He lifted the bonnet and Brett heard him say, ‘Oh man. I knew this would happen.'

‘You need a hand?'

‘No, I'm okay. The engine just needs a couple of minutes to cool down, that's all.'

‘You sure?'

‘Yeah, I'm sure.'

James tinkered with the engine for a while, jerking his hand back and wincing in pain as he burnt himself again and again. Finally, Brett couldn't watch the guy cook himself any more and got out. He walked round to the front just as James closed the bonnet.

‘Is everything okay now?'

James hissed, tucking his burnt hand under his armpit. ‘She should be cooled down enough by now. Hop back in. We better go find a petrol station.'

The Mustang rocked as they jumped back in. James turned the keys but the engine just
rrr-rrr-rrr
ed and died.

‘What now?' James said, slumping back into his seat.

‘What's wrong?'

‘It must be the water valve. I didn't see it anywhere. It must've fallen down inside the engine.'

‘I can find it. Do you have a torch somewhere?'

‘Er, yeah. I think so. It's in the boot. I'll open it and the bonnet if you like.'

‘If it gets us going again — yer.'

Brett opened the door and stepped out again. He walked round the back and called out to James to pop the boot. But James didn't hear him. He was too busy starting the engine. And it sounded fine.

‘Hey! What are you doing?' Brett shouted as the car started driving away. He grabbed the side of the Mustang until the pull became too great and he had to let go.

‘Hey! Come back here! What about me?!'

The Mustang blazed away at a hundred k's an hour. Brett ran after it screaming. But it was no use. Conned, he watched his bag and wallet disappear into the night.

Brett slept badly, if “slept” was the right word. He'd crashed behind some trees hidden from the main road. (He didn't want the cops or some pervert cruising by while he was catching some z's.) The ground had been hard and lumpy. Rocks and twigs and roots kept poking into his back. And he could have sworn that something had been watching him for most of the night. It was about four o'clock when he did get to sleep and then only out of exhaustion. Two hours later the sun was up and so was he.

So he felt more miserable than ever. He was cranky, tired and hungry — a pain he wished would go away!

After a long drink from a creek, he flicked his hands dry and stood up. He walked back to his “bed”
and grabbed his bag. He'd found it and his clothes scattered by the roadside three kilometres from where James had robbed him. The wallet was empty. That was predictable. But stealing his cans of food was really low.

“You can put your bag in the back if you like.”

He'd been an idiot!

“It must be the water valve. I didn't see it anywhere. It must've fallen down inside the engine.”

“I can find it. Do you have a torch somewhere?”

How could he have fallen for such a simple trap?

Brett closed his eyes and hung his head. He still couldn't believe what had happened. Just thinking about it made him sore. It made him feel stupid, angry and …

And?

Scared.

There! He'd admitted it! He was scared of what would happen to him now that he had no money, and scared that something worse could have happened last night. James could have had a gun or a knife or —

Stop!

He was spooking himself. The thought had bugged him a lot since the robbery. But he couldn't shake it. It wasn't something that happened every
day. It hadn't happened to him ever! And he wished it hadn't now.

He felt —

(the same way the people he robbed did?)

No, not that.

(Liar.)

No!

(Yes!)

‘NO!'

A herd of cows to Brett's left bolted as he yelled out. He suddenly became conscious of where he was again and pushed his way through the trees towards the main road. Within seconds he was walking along the dusty bitumen, a large sunbaking lizard the only traffic.

A peeling billboard loomed above him. It advertised bed and breakfast in Moree 89 k's away. It had a picture of a well-groomed family sitting down at a table loaded with plates of hot food and bowls of salad. Sharp hunger pains flexed their claws in his stomach again. He desperately needed to eat — and
now
. The only chance of that round here was to beg or earn some money.

To his right, sat a white weatherboard house with a truck and a set of kids' swings out front. A fresh load of washing drip-dried off a Hills Hoist out the
back, indicating someone had hung it out recently. Brett walked faster. This was a family. They'd have pity on him.

‘Sorry,' the lady said from behind the screen door.

‘I'm a hard worker. Really.'

‘I'm sure you are but the drought's left us with no money. We can't pay the bank and the only food we eat we grow ourselves. I'm sorry but we can't help you.'

‘Then do you know anyone here who is looking for help?'

‘Mummy, who's this man?'

‘Sssh, Philip. Mummy's talking.' Her snot-face son kept pestering her until she sent him bawling to his room. ‘Um, you could try the Nicholas property. It's the biggest one round here. The owners occasionally hire extra staff.'

‘Where's that?'

‘Four kilometres south. On the other side of the road.'

The property was easy to find. A steel milk drum painted red and used as a mailbox was marked NICHOLAS.

‘Dad!' a girl in her twenties shouted after answering the doorbell. ‘There's someone here to see you.'

A tall man with a sunburnt neck and face filled the doorway and stared down at Brett. ‘Morning,' the man said. ‘What can I do for you?'

‘Er, well, I was wondering if you have any spare work at the moment. I was passing through the area and some people down the road said you might need someone to help you round the property. I'm a hard worker and I'm good with my hands. I've got a bit of experience working on a farm so I thought you might —'

‘Whoa, son. Stop. Take a breath,' Mr Nicholas said. ‘Let me save you a whole lot of bellyaching. I do need some help —'

All right!

‘— but —'

Please, no buts.

‘— not until late March. There will be a few jobs on offer then.'

Mr Nicholas waited for a response and Brett mumbled that he'd think about it. He needed money for food now, not in two months.

‘Well you think about it and tell me soon if you want the job,' the man called out as Brett walked back towards the main road. ‘If you don't I can always get some of those Mungindi boys from Sam Fraser's farm to help us out again.'

Brett flinched at the name and weakly waved back. It was his best offer yet but just as useless as the last one.

He tried the next property he came across.

‘What do you want?' a squat middle-aged man demanded from behind a closed window.

‘Do you have any work available?' Brett shouted.

‘No! Now go away!'

The bearded man snapped the curtain back.

‘Can I have some food then?'

There was no answer for a full minute. Lifting his hand, Brett was about to knock on the door again when it opened.

‘I said go away!' the man shouted, pointing a rifle.

Brett didn't need further encouragement. He ran straight for the main road, not looking back.

Panting hotly, he hid behind a big gum miles from this last house. He took deep breaths to slow his pulse. Only when he realised he was safe again did he allow himself to relax. He slumped to the ground tired, afraid, rejected, miserable — and still hungry.

He'd failed. Sam was right. He wouldn't make it.

Sam. Always Sam. Why couldn't he get the guy out of his head? He'd fallen asleep last night with the old goat's wisdom bleating at him. He just wished he would shut up! He hadn't given Brett anything but
hassles. He didn't owe him a thing. He could survive by himself.

“Just remember, Brett: only you can change your life.”

He scooped up a handful of rocks and pegged them at a road sign.

‘Get out of my head!' he yelled.

Missing the sign by metres, Brett ran over and kicked it instead. Exhausted, he collapsed back onto the ground in a heap and buried his face in his hands. He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't going to cry. He wasn't …

Oh man. He couldn't even if he wanted to.