The man turns his back, nozzle still in his hand.
But then he shifts again, eyeing me more carefully.
A teenage boy. Been in a fight, no doubt.
Loitering in the dark before sunrise.
His gaze lingers on the bruises.
“Yeah,” he answers cautiously. “I am.”
I do my best to appear calm, non-threatening.
The driver tilts his head slightly.
“What happened to your face?”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I look down at the ground for a second.
“I just… need to get to Longreach. Please.”
He doesn’t say anything at first.
I swallow.
“Please,” I beg. “Ireallyneed to get out of here.”
The diesel pump clicks as the tank reaches its limit.
The man gestures across the street toward the police station.
“You could go talk to them,” he says. “They’ll help you out.”
If only you knew,I sigh.
“No. They won't.”
My response sounds sharp.
I shake my head, panic rising in my gut.
“He’s mates with my dad.”
The contractor leans against the side of his truck, eyes softening.
“Did your old man give you those bruises?" he asks.
I hesitate for a fraction of a second, then nod.
“Please. I'll wash your truck for you. I know how to change oil.”
“You don’t have to…”
“I'm real good at fixing things too. I just need to get out of here, before he…”
The man smiles with sadness in his eyes.
“You got family in Longreach, mate?”
