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245 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2014
'Jesus bloody Christ, he thought. I'm only gunna live eighty years. And forty are meant to be spent working; forty trying to make money. People seemed to do anything to get the stuff, and expected him to do the same. And yet they all had those mugs with Countdown to the weekend and Thank God it's Friday on their desks. The least you could do, he reckoned, was have a job that fulfilled the basic human need of pleasure.'
'But he was bored too, if he was honest. Underwhelmed. Still on the farm, following his old man's dream. He tried to think. Had it ever become his own dream?'
'After a coffee, and after Shitslinger had gone to let fly at a few of the others, Cray drove over to the pit, spraying a fresh coat of rust-coloured dust over the donga office as he left in the Hilux. It was only about a kay away on a good gravel track, and it gave him a chance to see the sky and the odd saltbush and mallee tree. Tumbleweed raced across the land. Sometimes he'd try to beat it if it was headed for the road, for the car, rolling—almost bouncing—quick and light, towards nowhere.'
'But she saw him looking out at the gathering and ingathering of the water, and she sat up and looked, too, despite the autumn chill to the air.
The water came in, pummelled the rocks and sand, then retreated. It seemed to woo the land, with an intensity of lines and heaves and movement that didn't exist further out, closer to the horizon. Why is it, she thought, that where the two meet, water and land, there's this struggle?'