sunk in the real world, but I wasn’t sure the same rules applied any more.
Days passed. I didn’t touch the wine again.
Max and I were playing Monopoly when we heard it. The sound of the engine rumbled down the street like the low groan of a tired animal. We rushed to the front door, practically tripping over each other to get there.
People were crowded around the truck. Two guys in army uniforms stood on the back, on the tray, passing boxes down. The sight of them was almost overwhelming – just the relief of knowing that we weren’t forgotten gave me a lump in my throat. Max and I ran over to the truck, one of the officers gave us each a box.
‘Hey, is the snow radioactive? Is the air radioactive?’ I asked.
‘The levels are low,’ he answered. He wasn’t wearing a protective suit, so that was a good sign.
‘Will it get worse?’
‘Try to stay inside.’ He moved onto the next person.
We carried our boxes inside. Unpacking them felt like Christmas. There was dried fruit, some nuts, bags of rice, more cans of soup. Water. Matches. I added the new supplies to our list and worked out how to ration it.
I listened to my one iPod song while lying on my back with my head up against the lounge-room window, looking up at the grey ache of the sky. For those three minutes and forty-eight seconds the weight of the smog and cloud couldn’t touch me. I was free of it.
Two weeks passed. We began sleeping in the same bed, it was warmer that way. Even though I had been careful only to light the fire during the day, firewood began to run low. We cocooned ourselves in beanies and gloves.
I learned that if I could keep my thoughts about Dad focused on the afternoon when I found the letter from Mum, I could almost stem my anxiety about his absence. My anger formed a nice protective cushion. If I let it slide to the other things – those days when he would carry me up the hill on his back or my memory of him slipping me fifty-dollar notes under the table during childhood games of Monopoly – worry would fester in my gut and even though I was so, so hungry, I couldn’t eat.
As for Mum, I imagined her in some sort of command centre, consulting people in uniforms, pointing at diagrams. I imagined her safe.
And when I slept, I dreamed of Lucy.
Another knock at the door. Mid-morning. I was drawing while Max told me about a guy who survived a tsunami by ripping his front door from its hinges and surfing the wave. (He didn’t have a lot of concrete facts.)
I think we both assumed it would be the army at the door, back with more food. We were sticking to our rations and it seemed to be working pretty well, but I’d gladly accept some more, even just for a bit of variety. (Not to mention the hazards of continually eating baked beans in a confined space.) The figure through the peephole wasn’t wearing an army uniform. I opened the door and realised it was Mick from across the road, Ellen’s husband. It took me a moment to recognise him beneath the thick stubble that had swallowed up half his face.
‘Hey mate.’ He ran a hand over his shaggy hair. ‘How you going?’
‘Yeah okay.’
‘Any news about your dad?’
‘No.’
‘Right.’ Mick nodded, waited for a moment out of respect. ‘Look, I was just wondering if you had any food you could spare us. We’ve run out of that stuff the army brought around.’
‘Um, yeah so have we.’
‘You don’t have any spare?’
I didn’t even hesitate. The lie came straight out without a beat. ‘No. I mean I’ve got some for tonight and a bit for tomorrow but that’s it.’
‘Yeah, sure. It’s just we’ve run out of food for the kids.’
I hesitated. ‘I can give you some rice. Just, like a cup. We don’t have much left.’
‘Would you, mate? That’d be awesome.’
‘Sure, um, can you take off your shoes though?’
Mick slipped off his Volleys and stepped inside. I closed the door behind him.
‘Wait here if you want, I’ll go grab the rice.’ I
Days passed. I didn’t touch the wine again.
Max and I were playing Monopoly when we heard it. The sound of the engine rumbled down the street like the low groan of a tired animal. We rushed to the front door, practically tripping over each other to get there.
People were crowded around the truck. Two guys in army uniforms stood on the back, on the tray, passing boxes down. The sight of them was almost overwhelming – just the relief of knowing that we weren’t forgotten gave me a lump in my throat. Max and I ran over to the truck, one of the officers gave us each a box.
‘Hey, is the snow radioactive? Is the air radioactive?’ I asked.
‘The levels are low,’ he answered. He wasn’t wearing a protective suit, so that was a good sign.
‘Will it get worse?’
‘Try to stay inside.’ He moved onto the next person.
We carried our boxes inside. Unpacking them felt like Christmas. There was dried fruit, some nuts, bags of rice, more cans of soup. Water. Matches. I added the new supplies to our list and worked out how to ration it.
I listened to my one iPod song while lying on my back with my head up against the lounge-room window, looking up at the grey ache of the sky. For those three minutes and forty-eight seconds the weight of the smog and cloud couldn’t touch me. I was free of it.
Two weeks passed. We began sleeping in the same bed, it was warmer that way. Even though I had been careful only to light the fire during the day, firewood began to run low. We cocooned ourselves in beanies and gloves.
I learned that if I could keep my thoughts about Dad focused on the afternoon when I found the letter from Mum, I could almost stem my anxiety about his absence. My anger formed a nice protective cushion. If I let it slide to the other things – those days when he would carry me up the hill on his back or my memory of him slipping me fifty-dollar notes under the table during childhood games of Monopoly – worry would fester in my gut and even though I was so, so hungry, I couldn’t eat.
As for Mum, I imagined her in some sort of command centre, consulting people in uniforms, pointing at diagrams. I imagined her safe.
And when I slept, I dreamed of Lucy.
Another knock at the door. Mid-morning. I was drawing while Max told me about a guy who survived a tsunami by ripping his front door from its hinges and surfing the wave. (He didn’t have a lot of concrete facts.)
I think we both assumed it would be the army at the door, back with more food. We were sticking to our rations and it seemed to be working pretty well, but I’d gladly accept some more, even just for a bit of variety. (Not to mention the hazards of continually eating baked beans in a confined space.) The figure through the peephole wasn’t wearing an army uniform. I opened the door and realised it was Mick from across the road, Ellen’s husband. It took me a moment to recognise him beneath the thick stubble that had swallowed up half his face.
‘Hey mate.’ He ran a hand over his shaggy hair. ‘How you going?’
‘Yeah okay.’
‘Any news about your dad?’
‘No.’
‘Right.’ Mick nodded, waited for a moment out of respect. ‘Look, I was just wondering if you had any food you could spare us. We’ve run out of that stuff the army brought around.’
‘Um, yeah so have we.’
‘You don’t have any spare?’
I didn’t even hesitate. The lie came straight out without a beat. ‘No. I mean I’ve got some for tonight and a bit for tomorrow but that’s it.’
‘Yeah, sure. It’s just we’ve run out of food for the kids.’
I hesitated. ‘I can give you some rice. Just, like a cup. We don’t have much left.’
‘Would you, mate? That’d be awesome.’
‘Sure, um, can you take off your shoes though?’
Mick slipped off his Volleys and stepped inside. I closed the door behind him.
‘Wait here if you want, I’ll go grab the rice.’ I
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