Raw by Scott Monk Page B

breath,’ Mr Nicholas said. ‘Let me save you a whole lot of bellyaching. I do need some help —’
    All right!
    â€˜â€” but —’
    Please, no buts.
    â€˜â€” not until late March. There will be a few jobs on offer then.’
    Mr Nicholas waited for a response and Brett mumbled that he’d think about it. He needed money for food now, not in two months.
    â€˜Well you think about it and tell me soon if you want the job,’ the man called out as Brett walked back towards the main road. ‘If you don’t I can always get some of those Mungindi boys from Sam Fraser’s farm to help us out again.’
    Brett flinched at the name and weakly waved back. It was his best offer yet but just as useless as the last one.
    He tried the next property he came across.
    â€˜What do you want?’ a squat middle-aged man demanded from behind a closed window.
    â€˜Do you have any work available?’ Brett shouted.
    â€˜No! Now go away!’
    The bearded man snapped the curtain back.
    â€˜Can I have some food then?’
    There was no answer for a full minute. Lifting his hand, Brett was about to knock on the door again when it opened.
    â€˜I said go away!’ the man shouted, pointing a rifle.
    Brett didn’t need further encouragement. He ran straight for the main road, not looking back.
    Panting hotly, he hid behind a big gum miles from this last house. He took deep breaths to slow his pulse. Only when he realised he was safe again did he allow himself to relax. He slumped to the ground tired, afraid, rejected, miserable — and still hungry.
    He’d failed. Sam was right. He wouldn’t make it.
    Sam. Always Sam. Why couldn’t he get the guy out of his head? He’d fallen asleep last night with the old goat’s wisdom bleating at him. He just wished he would shut up! He hadn’t given Brett anything buthassles. He didn’t owe him a thing. He could survive by himself.
    â€œJust remember, Brett: only you can change your life.”
    He scooped up a handful of rocks and pegged them at a road sign.
    â€˜Get out of my head!’ he yelled.
    Missing the sign by metres, Brett ran over and kicked it instead. Exhausted, he collapsed back onto the ground in a heap and buried his face in his hands. He wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t …
    Oh man. He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

‘Hey kid,’ a deep voice said, waking Brett from his daze. ‘Here’s your stop.’
    Brett wiped his eyes and looked out the windscreen of the semi-trailer. A red sun bloodied a fenced property cut in the middle with a dirt track. He shaded his face and recognised the entrance. It was the right place. There was the homestead in the far distance.
    The semi-trailer’s cabin shook as the driver waited for Brett to get out. Drowsily, he pushed the door open and dropped down onto the ground. ‘Thanks,’ he said with a quick wave. The driver nodded, closed the door then crunched a dozen or so gears. The semi-trailer grunted down the road until it disappeared.
    Brett checked his watch. It was later than hethought. How long had he been out of it? He hadn’t even heard the truck stop.
    But that wasn’t important. What lay ahead of him was. At the end of the dirt track was The Farm. It promised to be the longest walk of his life. He was reluctant. Nervous. And uncertain. He felt like a lost son coming home. He didn’t even know if he’d be welcomed back. Or if he could make the distance.
    While The Farm was only ten minutes away, it took a lot longer to be forgiven.
    Â 
    The cattle dogs Blue and Grey chased the worn tennis ball across the courtyard. They both snapped as it bounced past the garage and into the long grass. Blue reached it first, then triumphantly padded back to Josh at the homestead, her head and tail high in the air. The stablehand tried to reclaim the ball from her but she