‘Aggressive.’
He shifts gear and glances down at my feet.‘You wore Converses?’
‘They’re high-tops,’ I defend, as if that makes them immune to the laws of terrain.
‘Right.That’ll stop the snakes.’
I hover both feet off the floor.‘Snakes?’
Luke chuckles and shifts gear again.
We drive for a while in a silence that isn’t exactly awkward.It’s more … uncertain.Maybe we’re both waiting to see if this thing will settle into something or crack apart completely.
‘How big is the property?’I ask, mostly to kill my own wandering thoughts.
‘Four hundred and sixteen thousand hectares.’
I pause.‘That sounds fake.’
‘It’s not.’
‘What’s that in swimming pool sizes?’
Luke shrugs.‘It’s almost twice the size of the ACT.’
I stare at him.‘You own something twice the size of a state and you still make your own coffee?’
A slow grin spreads, tugging both dimples into view.‘There’s no espresso bar out here.Just me and the cattle.’
‘And they’re not great baristas?’
‘Terrible service.No tip jars.’
I laugh and we drive deeper into the property.The sun’s climbing now – high and punishing, stripping the morning glow to a blinding glare.Sparse trees give way to an endless expanse of cracked red dirt that stretches to the horizon.The bits of grass that still cling to life are brittle and sun-bleached, burnt to the point of surrender.Spinifex peppers the ground in low, spiky clumps while white gum trees stand resolute in the distance, pale and peeling, their gnarled limbs casting warped shadows across the earth.Every now and then, a flash of a yellow banksia breaks through the dust – a piece of stubborn beauty.The air is dense with the scent of dry soil and diesel, as if this world has been baking for years and there’s no way to turn the oven off.
And then I see them.
Cattle, scattered in the distance.As we get closer to the paddock, it’s impossible to ignore their ribs, the way their skin clings too tightly to their bodies.They’re grazing – or trying to.The ground doesn’t have much to offer.
The ute slows to a stop by the gate.
Luke kills the engine.
For a long moment, we just sit there.
Watching.
‘They’re underweight,’ he says finally, voice lower now.‘Next feed truck’s supposed to arrive tomorrow.That’s if the guy shows.’
‘What’s the solution?’I ask quietly, still watching the cattle.
Luke leans back in his seat, feelings hidden behind a carefully neutral face.‘Rain.’
It’s a joke, sort of.But it’s also not.
I turn to look at him, and for once, he doesn’t meet my eyes.His fingers tap the steering wheel absently.‘The land’s too dry,’ he says, almost to himself.‘We’ve sold off most of the stock to cut costs.I help out at Darcy’s in exchange for hay.Enough to keep this last herd alive.Hopefully enough to breed.’
‘Jesus,’ I whisper.
