A retired couple travelling through to Quilpie.
A fisherman, perhaps.
An opal collector.
Or most likely, a council worker.
People who have the freedom to leave.
Lucky bastards.
But the one thing they all stop for?
Fuel.
Which is why I’m waiting here, hiding behind this tree.
???
“Sparrows don't fart,” I once said to my dad.
“How the fuck would you know?” he’d snapped.
I knew because as a curious kid I’d been listening carefully.
Leaning close whenever the birds flocked nearby.
Not a peep from those feathery butts.
“Sparrows fart means before sunrise, love,” mum had whispered in my ear.
Before sunrise is the only safe time to sneak out, I’ve decided.
In my experience, drunk men are hardly ever awake at dawn.
So I wait until the clock in the kitchen says quarter past four.
Breath quickening, heart pounding like a rock in a tin can, I roll out of bed.
Wasn’t sleeping anyway.
Too nervous to sleep.
Gotta be careful not to step on the squeaky floorboard next to the rug.
I’ve been planning this for a while.
My escape checklist is spelled backwards in my notebook in case anyone reads it.
Einaeb.
Trihs.
I stole my dad's beanie and flannel shirt from the laundry pile on the couch.
The older I look, the less likely someone will recognise me.
Retaw selttob.
