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now I’m supposed to too?’
    â€˜If you want to stay here — yes.’
    â€˜That’s the thing. I don’t want to stay here. And I don’t want to follow any stupid rules.’
    Josh looked at him but didn’t answer. Instead, he opened the front door of The Boys’ House and walked into the common room.
    â€˜Where is everybody anyway?’
    â€˜Sam let us have the afternoon off.’
    â€˜What, so you could go and plough his fields?’
    â€˜No, everybody’s in Moree for the day.’
    Brett’s jaw dropped. ‘Moree? He let everyone go to Moree?’
    Moree was a medium-sized country town that the cops had driven through a couple of hours out of Mungindi.
    â€˜Is anybody watching them?’
    â€˜A couple of teachers.’
    â€˜A couple? Aren’t they worried about guys running away?’
    â€˜No, not really.’
    They would be if he was allowed to roam free!
    Brett was getting really confused. What kind of detention centre was this? Inmates were allowed out on day trips. There weren’t any bars on the cells. There weren’t even cells! And pretty boy here thought the warden was his friend. Brett hadn’t been sent to a jail. He’d been sent to a psychiatric hospital.
    Josh sucked in his breath and tightened the rag round his hand. ‘Ow,’ he winced, waving it about.
    â€˜The horse bit you, eh?’ Brett said with a sly grin.
    â€˜Yes, she’s a real wild one. I tried to put some reins on and she nipped me. Len Paterson caught her up north. He brought her back for Sam to tame.’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜He’s the best tamer round here. If anyone wants a horse broken-in they come to Sam.’
    â€˜What is he? Some kind of stockman?’
    â€˜Used to be. Now he runs The Farm.’
    â€˜What’s he like? Is he tough or all talk?’
    â€˜Neither. He’s a good bloke.’
    â€˜C’mon, you’re kidding, right? He’s the warden.’
    â€˜He’s not the warden. He’s a caretaker.’
    Brett snorted. ‘Are you hearing what you’re saying?“Sam’s a good bloke.” “He’s not the warden. He’s a caretaker.” Yer, right. Man, you’ve been in here too long. You’re turning soft.’
    â€˜What’s that supposed to mean?’
    â€˜What do you think?’
    The Aboriginal kid stood there mouth gaping as Brett’s voice echoed down the corridor.
    Josh shook his head and curled his hand into a fist. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘My hand’s bleeding again. I better let Mary look at it. You know where your room is?’
    â€˜Yer,’ Brett answered. And he also knew a lame excuse when he heard one.
    Josh walked away and Brett shook his head. Had that kid been brainwashed or what?
    Left alone and with nothing to do, Brett found a tap and gulped down mouthful after mouthful of cool water. He splashed his face and wet his hair to wash the road off. Feeling cleaner, he headed for the kitchen. He pulled up short when he heard laughter, however, and peered round a corner. Teachers by the looks of them enjoying a free afternoon without any classes. And a couple of hecklers trying to escape the heat. They closed the front door and set up a rack on the pool table. Finally when they had their backs to him, Brett crouched down and lit a cigaretteon a hotplate. He finished smoking it sitting on his bed.
    He opened his bag to check the cops hadn’t nicked anything. No, it was all still there: two pairs of jeans, a couple of T-shirts, jocks and socks. He found something unusual at the bottom of his bag though. Something he hadn’t packed. He pulled out the brown paper parcel and untied it. Inside were several stamped envelopes with his home address already written on them, a couple of pens, a pad of paper, a new pair of yellow smiley boxer shorts and a framed photo of his family. Attached to the frame was a