potÂholes. Something shot out from the side of the road and bounced in front of the car. Dad hit the brakes.
âWhat was that?â Ben asked, squeezing his lip.
âDunno,â Dad said. âWasnât a rabbit. Nose was too long.â
âA bandicoot, maybe? Or a potoroo?â
âWhatâs that?â Dad asked.
âDonât worry.â Ben wasnât too sure himself but there was no point talking Australian wildlife with Dad. It wasnât his area.
They plunged ever downward, the ridges and ruts in the road becoming deeper the further they dived. For five minutes nobody spoke.
âAre we sure this is it?â Mum asked.
Dad didnât respond.
Ben figured that every future holiday could only get better than this. He clutched the broken armrest in his door and dug his feet into the floor. The nose of the car was pitched so far forward it felt as though they might somersault.
Bang! The front right wheel dropped. They stopped.
Dad opened his door and climbed out to inspect the damage. Hum of engine, chill of night and smell of fumes filled the car. The lights were trained on a sharp left-hand bend up ahead. A steep drop over the edge.
âDo you think this is the right way?â Ben whispered, careful Dad did not hear.
Mum shrugged, chewing on the skin of her thumb.
A minute or two passed before Dad got back into the car. âCanât see a thing.â
He released the handbrake and turned the wheel far to the left, his door still open. He revved hard and the back wheels spun, howling into the night. Ben prayed that they would get out of this but the car didnât move. Mum sighed. Ben balled his fists, digging his nails into his palm. He wondered how Olive could sleep through this.
The engine screamed and the wheels continued to spin. Dad turned the wheel to the right and the front of the car jerked suddenly up and forward. Dad slammed his door and they lurched ahead, toward the sharp left-hand bend.
Dad took the corner too fast and the back of the car slipped toward the drop, then corrected. Soon, bushes bunched in on either side of the car. Screeeeek. Branches scratching. Dad growled. The screeeeek went on, the night digging its claws into the paintwork, before a clearing appeared ahead and the bushes opened up on either side.
âThis is it,â Dad said.
A timber cabin came into view, hunched against the forest and darkness. It was built of long logs, twenty centimetres thick, running straight up and down from ground to roof. Just one dark window and a door next to it. Trees huddled low over the cabin just as Ben had imagined, the ridges in the corrugated iron roof choked with leaves.
The car came to a stop. Dad twisted the key and switched off the engine.
âIâm not getting out,â Ben said.
âYes, you are,â Dad said.
Cabin. Dark, sad, villainous.
âAre you really sure this is it?â Ben asked.
âYes. Iâm sure,â Dad replied, a trickle of venom in his voice.
âWeâll stay in the car,â Mum said.
Ben was quiet.
âBig girl,â Dad said under his breath. âYâscared?â
Dad knew that Ben didnât like being called âscaredâ.
Dad popped his door.
Ben popped his. The shhhhhh of water rushed into the car, a creek or stream nearby. Ben stepped out, quietly clicked his door closed and moved toward the cabin, half a step behind his father. He scanned the ground for snakes, every cell in his body pleading to return to the car. A frog croaked loudly nearby. Insects sang a never-ending songin the trees all around. The headlights cast monstrous, moving shadows of Ben and Dad onto the cabin. Ben felt a bite on his arm and slapped it. There was a call from deep within the woods to the right that sounded like a babyâs cry.
âWhatâs that?â Ben grabbed Dadâs tattooed arm and fell into step beside him.
âNight birds,â Dad said quietly. âI
âWhat was that?â Ben asked, squeezing his lip.
âDunno,â Dad said. âWasnât a rabbit. Nose was too long.â
âA bandicoot, maybe? Or a potoroo?â
âWhatâs that?â Dad asked.
âDonât worry.â Ben wasnât too sure himself but there was no point talking Australian wildlife with Dad. It wasnât his area.
They plunged ever downward, the ridges and ruts in the road becoming deeper the further they dived. For five minutes nobody spoke.
âAre we sure this is it?â Mum asked.
Dad didnât respond.
Ben figured that every future holiday could only get better than this. He clutched the broken armrest in his door and dug his feet into the floor. The nose of the car was pitched so far forward it felt as though they might somersault.
Bang! The front right wheel dropped. They stopped.
Dad opened his door and climbed out to inspect the damage. Hum of engine, chill of night and smell of fumes filled the car. The lights were trained on a sharp left-hand bend up ahead. A steep drop over the edge.
âDo you think this is the right way?â Ben whispered, careful Dad did not hear.
Mum shrugged, chewing on the skin of her thumb.
A minute or two passed before Dad got back into the car. âCanât see a thing.â
He released the handbrake and turned the wheel far to the left, his door still open. He revved hard and the back wheels spun, howling into the night. Ben prayed that they would get out of this but the car didnât move. Mum sighed. Ben balled his fists, digging his nails into his palm. He wondered how Olive could sleep through this.
The engine screamed and the wheels continued to spin. Dad turned the wheel to the right and the front of the car jerked suddenly up and forward. Dad slammed his door and they lurched ahead, toward the sharp left-hand bend.
Dad took the corner too fast and the back of the car slipped toward the drop, then corrected. Soon, bushes bunched in on either side of the car. Screeeeek. Branches scratching. Dad growled. The screeeeek went on, the night digging its claws into the paintwork, before a clearing appeared ahead and the bushes opened up on either side.
âThis is it,â Dad said.
A timber cabin came into view, hunched against the forest and darkness. It was built of long logs, twenty centimetres thick, running straight up and down from ground to roof. Just one dark window and a door next to it. Trees huddled low over the cabin just as Ben had imagined, the ridges in the corrugated iron roof choked with leaves.
The car came to a stop. Dad twisted the key and switched off the engine.
âIâm not getting out,â Ben said.
âYes, you are,â Dad said.
Cabin. Dark, sad, villainous.
âAre you really sure this is it?â Ben asked.
âYes. Iâm sure,â Dad replied, a trickle of venom in his voice.
âWeâll stay in the car,â Mum said.
Ben was quiet.
âBig girl,â Dad said under his breath. âYâscared?â
Dad knew that Ben didnât like being called âscaredâ.
Dad popped his door.
Ben popped his. The shhhhhh of water rushed into the car, a creek or stream nearby. Ben stepped out, quietly clicked his door closed and moved toward the cabin, half a step behind his father. He scanned the ground for snakes, every cell in his body pleading to return to the car. A frog croaked loudly nearby. Insects sang a never-ending songin the trees all around. The headlights cast monstrous, moving shadows of Ben and Dad onto the cabin. Ben felt a bite on his arm and slapped it. There was a call from deep within the woods to the right that sounded like a babyâs cry.
âWhatâs that?â Ben grabbed Dadâs tattooed arm and fell into step beside him.
âNight birds,â Dad said quietly. âI
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