1. Summer rain

It comes and it comes and it comes. So just give in. Mud climbs the walls of the house, gold frogs cling to the windows. One afternoon Nora Johnson’s ute drifts off the lower mountain road and floats downriver. Five chickens, three hay bales and two sheep on the tray. You watch her cross a boggy paddock, signalling to your father for help. Then she smokes a joint on the doorstep. Nora’s fucking ark, says your mother, as they wade through mud towards the tractor. She picks up the bag of grass Nora left. What’s that for? My pain relief, your mother says, taking it into the bedroom. The sound of wet gumboots being removed at the door, like someone sighing. They slump against each other, given up. Every house along the road to town has its row of waterlogged shoes. In your bedroom Pip is finally sleeping. You tuck her white sheets in.