I’m stretched so tight that if I don’t bend, I’ll break. I’m waiting for something. Someone.But this time, it’s not Dad I’m waiting for. It’s Chris. I call him again, swearing when he doesn’t answer.
The wind finally calms, the rain eases. Ahead are the flickering lights of a toilet block, the harsh, bright glow illuminating the chipped concrete. I step out the car, shivering when the wind hits my skin. There’s only one other car in the lot, parked at the farthest end.
The toilet door creaks when I push it open, revealing a poorly flushed toilet, graffiti on the lid:
Don’t Blink.
I pee quickly. The soap dispenser’s empty, the mirror’s missing, muddied water pools in the corners.
Don’t Blink.
Uneasy, I peer over my shoulder, tuck my hands into my pockets. Outside, the rain’s stopped like it never even started. But the air’s heavy, thick with that post-storm atmosphere. The sheep remain under the ghost gums, matted and dripping.
The other car is still there, silent and grave as the air itself. It’s parked under a tea tree, the white bonnet covered in crescent-shaped leaves.
I stop walking.
It’s an Audi. White.
And it’s missing hubcaps.
I stumble forward, running. The pavement’s slick, water splashes up my ankles.Don’t trip, don’t trip.I’m breathless when I reach the driver’s-side door and lunge for the handle. Locked.
I peer in, terrified I’ll see Chris in there. Terrified I won’t.
But he’s not in there. The car is empty, silent. Abandoned.
I peer desperately through the back window. How long has it been sitting here? I snatch my phone, call him again, sweeping my gaze through the car. Breathlessly, I wait, praying I’ll see his phone screen illuminate.
But the car sits quietly, crescent leaves stuck fast to the bonnet, dirt spraying the roof and license plate like nature itself is trying to swallow it. If Chris saw the state of his car, he’d race to the nearest car wash and frantically scrub it.
Chris.
My eyes water, the back of my throat burns. I lean heavily against the driver’s-side door.
—
I charge into the VioletTown petrol station. A tired-looking attendant leans on the register with a magazine in his hand. Hebarely glances up as I stalk forward, asking if he’s seen Chris. I pull up hisDailyphoto and the attendant squints, scratching his stubbled chin. He gives me a slow shake of the head and I thank him, heart squeezing tight.
I race home on the darkening highway. The sky is the color of eggplant, and looming shadows race with me, chasing me down. My eyes fix on a charred tree trunk and a shadow crouched beside it, staring hungrily at a bleating lamb. Fox. I speed up, the hum of the engine lost in the cicadas’ hateful chorus.
The sky darkens, the highway feels endless. And Chris is out there somewhere, lost in this great dark.
It’s 9p.m.when I finally make it back to Kangaroo Bay. I shouldn’t have worried. Heath’s car isn’t in the driveway. He’s not waiting for me.
But something else is.
I pull onto our front lawn, headlights cutting through the darkness.
I wish they didn’t.
The beams light up our porch, the pickle-green awning and the front door. At first, it seems like a trick of the light, but my eyes focus, and it becomes too clear. There’s something on my doorstep. Waiting in the dark.
I climb out my car, headlights flickering as I step around them, headed for my front door. The world falls silent as I stare at what’s waiting there.
I crouch slowly, reach for the two triangular-shaped objects left on my doormat. They’re bigger than my palm, and they gleam in the night, the serrated edges as sharp as a knife.
Shark teeth.
