March 5th
You’re well enough now to go out to the car each day, bending over it for hours and poking at the engine. This morning, when I come out with water, you drink greedily.
‘Fixed it yet?’
You shake your head. ‘Like I said, you fucked it.’
‘Maybe I did it on purpose.’
You sigh in resignation.
‘Should be glad I didn’t hide the key again.’
‘Hmm, with your hiding skills?’ You turn back to the engine.
‘What’ll you do if you get it going?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Would you take me with you?’
No reply. I guess that’s a no then. I don’t feel anger, as I thought I would. But I’m not sure you’ll get the car fixed anyway. It still sputters each time you turn the key. And even if you did fix it, there’s the petrol problem. But it might get you as far as it got me a few days ago, and then you’d get a hitch back to Perth.
‘You just going to leave me here, that your plan?’
‘Wasn’t that your plan for me?’
‘No.’
I was going to kill you. I tried to, didn’t I? And when that didn’t work, I tried to make you better. I’m not sure what I’m trying to do now. Something more complicated.
I shield my eyes to watch cloud shadows move across the Separates, then slip over the sand. From inside the rocks comes the shriek of an eagle. I think I’m coming around to the idea of being left here. Maybe it’s never actually been about you—the wide space of this desert has always been what’s most important.