Is that why she lets hope slip through her fingers?
And why she taught me to focus on the sky instead?
Driving back toward her, I see my old life from the outside looking in.
And what I see frightens me.
Because a loss of hope is the darkest prison cell.
A darkness that I’ve escaped, twice if you count losing Olsen, but one that she’s still trapped inside.
There are only two ways to survive it.
One, creating daily rituals for the sake of your sanity.
Preferably without numbing yourself.
And two, having the right people around you.
As a child, I only had rituals.
No one who held both power and good intentions at the same time.
But that was then. This is now.
My name isn’t Mark anymore.
???
The steady hum of the tires feels ominous.
A soft rush of air through the vents.
My hand rests loose on the steering wheel.
My elbow is pressed against the window.
A large white sign to my left says:
Welcome to Barcoo Shire, heart of the channel country.
Jundah ninety seven kilometres, reads another.
It’s all too real now.
Too close, too soon.
This was a mistake, coming back here.
Dragging Amos out here.
Suddenly the truck feels too small, the land too wide.
My palms are slick with sweat, but I try to ignore it.
That slow, creeping awareness of panic thickens like storm clouds.
Control your breath, I tell myself.
