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‘Hey kid,' a deep voice said, waking Brett from his daze. ‘Here's your stop.'

Brett wiped his eyes and looked out the windscreen of the semi-trailer. A red sun bloodied a fenced property cut in the middle with a dirt track. He shaded his face and recognised the entrance. It was the right place. There was the homestead in the far distance.

The semi-trailer's cabin shook as the driver waited for Brett to get out. Drowsily, he pushed the door open and dropped down onto the ground. ‘Thanks,' he said with a quick wave. The driver nodded, closed the door then crunched a dozen or so gears. The semi-trailer grunted down the road until it disappeared.

Brett checked his watch. It was later than he
thought. How long had he been out of it? He hadn't even heard the truck stop.

But that wasn't important. What lay ahead of him was. At the end of the dirt track was The Farm. It promised to be the longest walk of his life. He was reluctant. Nervous. And uncertain. He felt like a lost son coming home. He didn't even know if he'd be welcomed back. Or if he could make the distance.

While The Farm was only ten minutes away, it took a lot longer to be forgiven.

 

The cattle dogs Blue and Grey chased the worn tennis ball across the courtyard. They both snapped as it bounced past the garage and into the long grass. Blue reached it first, then triumphantly padded back to Josh at the homestead, her head and tail high in the air. The stablehand tried to reclaim the ball from her but she wouldn't give it back. He made a few lunges for it without success before chasing after her laughing, Grey on his heels. He was about to yell out to Sam to help him when he casually glanced right and stopped. His smile disappeared and his body tensed. He never expected to see Brett again, obviously.

Sam didn't react, however, which was bad. Brett couldn't gauge his mood. The old man leant over the
railing of the verandah; his eyes shaded from the seven o'clock sun. Brett sauntered towards him, not knowing what to say or whether Sam would even listen. All it would take was one argument and that would give him an excuse to run away forever.

Blue and Grey padded up to him, their tails wagging and their tongues dropping down from toothy smiles. Brett scratched their necks and slapped their shoulders. At least these two were happy to see him.

‘Evening,' Sam said dryly.

‘Evening.' Brett dropped his gaze.

‘I was wondering where you'd got to.'

That was Brett's cue. With a thin, unsure sigh, he tried remembering the speech he'd practised walking here. But he couldn't recall a single word. ‘Sam, look I, er —'

‘It's seven o'clock. You know what time that is, don't you?'

‘No.'

Sam breathed out. ‘Dinner time. Any later and you would've missed out. Next time you will.'

The old man emphasised the last part, which left Brett wondering. Once again, he'd expected a lecture or, at worst, Sam calling the cops. But what was this about food?

Then he understood.

‘Well, what are you waiting for?' the old man growled. ‘Go on: eat! You're due for washing up duty in twenty minutes, remember?'

Brett grinned sheepishly and nodded. He didn't have to be told twice.

Relieved, he hurried towards The Boys' House before he paused and turned round. ‘Oh, and Sam,' he said, ‘thanks.'

‘Get up.'

‘Go away,' Brett mumbled. ‘I'm asleep.'

‘Get up!'

‘No. It's still morning.'

The voice didn't answer and Brett thought he'd won. He rolled over and hid his face under his arm from the morning light. Now, where was he? Oh yes. The girl with caramel brown hair …

SPLASH
!

Cold water hit his face, burning his cheeks and nostrils. He sat up spluttering and gaping like a floundering fish. He heard guys laughing at him and he glared at the doorway, expecting to see Josh. Instead, he saw —

‘Mary!'

— standing beside him, holding an empty pot.

‘I said get up.'

Brett wiped the rest of the water from his forehead and snarled as he looked at his watch. Six o'clock! The only time he was usually up at this hour was when he was staggering home after a big night out drinking.

Mary cleared the guys from the doorway and left. Brett looked round the room for Frog. He was gone.

After drying himself, Brett padded down the hallway, yawning and scratching his head. Ten hours of sleep hadn't been enough. After dinner the night before he'd just managed to pull his boots off before crashing.

The smell of bacon, poached eggs and buttered toast led the way and he heard the guys' voices growing louder as he approached the mess hall.

‘A what?' he said, when he got there.

‘A three kilometre run,' Frog said, tying his shoelaces in a double knot. ‘Everybody has to do it.'

‘I'm not,' Brett answered. ‘They can ground me if they want because there's no way I'm doing any stupid run.'

‘You won't get breakfast then.'

Frog finished with his shoes then pushed through the crowd to reach his friends. Left alone, Brett shrugged and promised to steal some food later. He
was starving again, but no one — and he meant no one — was going to make him run round a paddock on a stinking hot morning. His mind made up, Brett tried to slip back to his room —

— and walked straight into Sam!

‘Going somewhere?'

‘I'm going to the, er, bathroom.'

‘Well, hurry up. Mr Andrews is taking the guys on their morning run in a minute. And you
are
going with them.'

And to make sure he went, he gave Brett two minutes to meet back with the main group. He even stood outside the bathroom, staring at his watch.

First thing though was the morning rollcall. All forty inmates lined up outside The House, slouching, coughing and mumbling, ‘Yer,' when Sam read out their name. Brett guessed that the whole exercise was to make sure no one had done a runner overnight. And he was right.

‘Let me remind you,' Sam said, ‘that if anyone decides to leave The Farm without supervision, everyone is punished. This happened the other night and because no one reported it, all activities are suspended for a week —'

The guys moaned and cursed.

‘That includes no TV or videos. And the planned
trip to the pool on Friday has been cancelled.'

They reacted even more angrily to that.

‘It's the new guy's fault!' someone yelled out.

‘Wayne's too for letting him get away!'

‘Is not!' a kid with a black eye said.

‘Why don't you just punish the new guy?'

‘Because you all have to look out for each other,' Sam answered. ‘That's the whole point here. If one guy steps out of line, the rest of you have to cop the blame too. Everybody has to work together.' The guys complained again but Sam warned them it would be two weeks if they didn't be quiet. ‘Now hurry up. Mr Andrews is waiting.'

Brett tagged along behind the rest of the inmates, but not before someone breathed into his ear, ‘Good going, Pretty Boy.'

Mr Andrews was the PE-cum-maths teacher. Apparently each morning he led the forty inmates of The Farm on a three kilometre run to help give the guys a “healthy body for a healthy mind”. A healthy body for a healthy mind? Was he for real? The bloke had been watching too many cereal commercials.

Whatever. Ten minutes into the run, Brett was exhausted. He was coughing, his legs hurt and the back of his boots were shaving skin off his heels.
He'd take an unhealthy body and mind any day instead of this torture.

‘Dalton! What's the problem this time?' Mr Andrews said.

‘I can't run any further.'

‘Why?'

‘I think I've sprained my ankle.'

Mr Andrews stopped jogging on the spot and squatted down beside him. ‘I wouldn't be surprised,' he said, feeling the ankle. ‘Do you own any running shoes?'

‘Nope.'

Brett hissed when Mr Andrews placed pressure on it. ‘How bad is it?' Mr Andrews asked. ‘Can you walk?'

‘Probably,' Brett said. He stood up with help but winced the minute he put any weight on his foot.

‘Okay, go back to the homestead and see Mary. She's got a first aid kit. Ask her to have a better look at it, and to find you some running shoes.'

‘Thanks,' Brett said, screwing his face up again.

He started hobbling back towards the homestead with his “sprained” ankle when Mr Andrews called out, ‘I'll see you tomorrow, Brett. You'll have to run five kilometres to make up for the two you skipped today.'

Brett groaned and looked at the sky. He just couldn't win.

Alone, he grabbed the chance to shower. He'd seen enough prison movies to know places like this one had its share of bum bandits. It had been humiliating enough back in Sydney having to drop his daks at the strip search and have some female cop drill her fingers up his backside. So he showered quickly and got dressed double-time into a T-shirt and a blue pair of shorts he'd cut from his jeans.

The guys were back by the time he'd finished. A couple of them made sure he knew by thumping into him as he walked past. By the third time, he knew it was deliberate. He spun round, fists clenched, trying to find the perp. But all he saw was the back of people's heads. Soon, he realised how futile it was and returned to his room to drop off his dirty clothes.

The second he walked in, he knew something was wrong. His mattress was on the floor. His drawers were open. And his backpack had been emptied. He rushed over to check out the carnage.

His clothes were okay — not shredded as he feared. His boots were still there, as was the rest of his gear. What had they taken? Then it hit him. The parcel his mother had given him and the photo. Gone.

Brett thumped his drawers then marched down the corridor, his fists balled up. He reckoned he knew who'd taken them. Who else but Tyson and his two thugs?

‘Hello, Pretty Boy. Come to say hello, have we?'

Brett lashed out and pushed the big inmate backwards. ‘Where is it? What have you done with it?'

‘What have I done with what?' Tyson answered, returning the gesture. Brett sprawled backwards and fell over a guitar case. He hit the floorboards hard. Tyson walked over to him and pulled him up by the shirt. ‘Huh, little man?'

‘Hey, Tyson, look what I scored,' a guy said from the doorway. It was the redhead.

‘You and me both,' the big inmate replied, pushing Brett over to the thug.

‘Ah, the kid who got us all into trouble. How's it going, pal?' The redhead squeezed Brett in a bearhug until he finally screamed.

‘Not so tough now, are we?' Tyson asked.

‘My parcel,' Brett said, his face red and neck pumping with anger. ‘I want it back.'

‘What parcel? I don't know about any parcel.' Tyson walked over to his bed and lifted up his pillow. ‘Unless you mean this parcel.'

‘Give it back! It's mine!'

‘Nice photo. Mum. Dad. Two sisters. All as ugly as dogs but I see that's all in the genes, ain't it.'

Brett squirmed in the redhead's grip. ‘Just give it back, would you.'

‘You want this, don't you? Well, let me tell you something. In here, you own nothing. The only person in this place who does own anything is me.'

‘And what do you own?'

‘You.'

‘Hey, Tyson!' another voice interrupted from the doorway. It was the other thug. ‘Grandpa's going ballistic wondering why you ain't serving breakfast.'

Tyson breathed deeply and looked from one thug to the other. ‘Let Pretty Boy off. He's not going anywhere. We'll have plenty of time to catch up later.'

The redhead released his grip and Brett stood there, breathing deeply, figuring out who he should thump first. But he was outnumbered. And even though he hated backing away from a fight, this one he knew he couldn't win. Yet.

He reached for the parcel but Tyson stopped him. ‘Like I said, it's not yours.'

Brett glared but it was no good. He was beaten. Reluctantly, he retreated.

‘Oh, and say thanks to mummy when you see her
next,' Tyson called out. ‘The boxer shorts are a bit tight but at least they're comfortable.'

The three laughed as Brett shot out of there.

 

There was already a line-up when Brett walked into the mess hall. Twenty-five guys snaked from the kitchen serving window along one wall, holding plastic trays and talking among themselves. Over in one corner sat the staff, including Sam, Mary, Mr Andrews and a couple of other teachers whose names Brett didn't know yet.

He felt the whole room's eyes on him the second he made his appearance. Guys looked over their shoulder while others already served and seated whispered across tables — about him no doubt. Brett slid his hands into his pockets, clenched his jaw then dragged his feet to the end of the line. The kid in front of him turned round and scowled but Brett ignored him.

Ten minutes later, he reached the head of the line but not before one more drama. A couple of latecomers behind him had been hassling him. They'd been mucking round by pushing each other to see who was the strongest, and without fail, had accidentally bumped into Brett every time. He was
already fired up after his confrontation with Tyson.

And it didn't take much to rile him. One push by Brett and the skinny kid closest to him rammed into his mate. They crashed onto the ground and everybody looked up from their breakfast.

‘What did you do that for?' the skinny kid asked, quickly standing again. When Brett didn't answer, the skinny kid twisted him round to get one.

Brett reacted angrily to the kid's touch and swung his arm to get the hand off him. For the kid, that was enough to start a fight.

‘Hey! What's going on over there?' Mary shouted before the first punch was thrown.

‘Brett? Wayne?' Sam demanded.

The two teenagers eyeballed each other, waiting for the other to make a move. ‘Just a misunderstanding,' the kid called Wayne said finally.

‘It looks more than just that. Both of you — go to the end of the line.'

‘
Sam
,' Wayne groaned.

‘Go. And if either of you wants to argue about it, you can both go without breakfast. Do you understand?'

‘Yes.'

‘Brett?'

‘Yer.'

Satisfied, Sam watched as the pair slunk to the end of the line like they were told.

‘How's it feel to be marked, Dalton?' the kid sniggered as they did so.

 

Brett turned round and slid his plastic tray to the serving window. He was expecting bacon, scrambled eggs and freshly buttered toast when he reached it — not Tyson's smug face smiling back at him.

‘Ah, Pretty Boy, I s'pose you want some food now, huh?' he said.

The big inmate splattered some scrambled eggs on a plate then fished out from a warming container a piece of bacon which was mostly fat. ‘Eat every last bit of it, won't you? Especially the bacon,' Tyson said. ‘Because like you, it's dead meat.'

Brett snatched away his tray then left. Once again, he felt as if everyone was watching him as he tried to find a seat. He headed towards one on the far side of the room and sat down. The kids on both sides of him stood up and left, taking their half-eaten meals with them. Brett shrugged. So he was marked. Big thrill. He had to stay cool. Worrying about it would only make him look weak. And that was the worst thing in places like this.

He forked some scrambled egg into his mouth as he tuned into the conversations around him. If no one wanted to talk to him, they couldn't stop him from listening.

‘C'mon, what do you say?' one kid pushed. ‘Once we're out of here, it's easy money. Five grand each. Guaranteed.'

‘I don't know,' the second answered. ‘I was thinking of going straight.'

‘Straight? Man, you don't want to go straight. That's for losers. Don't let grandpa brainwash you. Look at him. What do you want to be? Over the hill and poor like him? Or young and rich?'

The second kid laughed weakly.

‘That's my boy,' the first kid said, slapping his mate on the shoulder. ‘Just don't tell anyone though. We don't want to split the loot three ways now, do we?'

Brett shook his head. See. These places didn't work.

He finished off his breakfast when Tyson lumbered up behind him. Brett sighed and just hoped the guy would get out of his face. But the big inmate bent down and breathed into his ear, ‘Like the eggs? I made that batch especially for you. Notice how they were extra yellow? Huh? Like a urinal?'

Brett spat out the last mouthful of his breakfast!
Choking, he stood up to try and gorge himself of the rest! Tyson laughed, watching as Brett stuck his fingers down his throat. That was until Brett lashed out with the first punch and the whole mess hall turned into a shouting ring.

‘Get him!'

‘Knock the dog out!'

‘Teach him not to run away again!'

Brett ducked as Tyson swung big meaty punches. It left the Islander's chest exposed and he crunched into it twice. It didn't have any effect though. Tyson aimed lower and caught Brett both times in the gut. The hits left him stunned. Tyson was still laying into him when Sam and Mr Andrews broke it up.