He doesn’t care what shit he’ll get into. He sits down on Thommo’s motorbike and drinks. The sky is as beautiful as ever, but tonight Mack just glares at the stars. Right now he hates the heat, the dusty ground and the dying trees. Even the sound of the cattle, usually cheery, makes him want to shoot them all and save them the pain of starving to death. He sculls the rest of the beer before the hot air warms it. He wants to toss the stubbie into the paddock, but he knows his dad would be angrier about finding glass near the cows than he would if Mack drank everything in the fridge. He doesn’t know what to do. He can’t go to bed because he’ll just lie there seeing Rory’s hands on Frankie’s bum. He hears someone walking across the driveway. He stands up, ready to disappear before anyone can find him. But Frankie steps into the shed and it’s too late. ‘Mack.’ ‘That’s my name.’ ‘About today …’ says Frankie, hating that she has to have this conversation at all.
