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clear-tongued voice he was greeting Limpy with. Midge tried to help him along by holding his elbow. Shane pulled his arm away and stood upright and walked. He was rubbing his side. He told Midge to leave him and turn the lamps off and go to bed. Moira asked if anything was wrong and Midge was about to answer but Shane waved for him to go to bed rather than speak on his behalf. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. Which Moira knew meant he wasn’t. It was useless to badger him. If something was wrong Shane didn’t tell you until he was ready. You could badger all you like, he’d say nothing.
    When he got in the house he went straight to the bedroom ready to drop and sleep. He didn’t need to feel his way in the dark. He lurched towards the bed with habit for his eyesight. Moira tried to warn him about the little bed being there but he was deaf from tiredness and clipped its edge and fell over. Not to the floor but onto the big bed, shunting the casters against the wall. He let out some swearing into the bedding and lay face down holding his side. Moira slid the little bed back from where Shane’s toe had budged it.
    ‘You in pain?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You want a Panadol?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    Shane raised himself on one elbow. ‘What’s that?’
    ‘It’s Mathew.’
    ‘Why’s he in here with us?’
    ‘I’m looking after him.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Letting Zara have a night off.’
    Moira rifled in the kitchen for the biscuit tin they used for chemist things. She pressed two pills from the blister pack and gave them to Shane, and water. He gulped them and flopped down again. Even in the dimness there was blood easy to see, a snot of it dried where it had dribbled beneath his nose. His nostrils were black. There was a cut under his eye, about an inch long. The space between the bottom lid and the cut was swelling.
    It was a while since this kind of trouble. Shane wasn’t a fighter. He wasn’t tall enough to have reach. He had strong arms for lifting homestead booty but he had no wish to lift people. People trouble got you injured. And the jail time was longer. It was better if you lost the fight: you looked the victim. Moira hoped Shane had lost. She was angry at him for fighting but hoped he lost for their sake and wasn’t too wounded.
    He fell asleep. She took off his boots and his pants. She left his shirt on in case she touched his sore side. Then lifted his head onto the pillow. She wanted to clean his face but that would wake him. Mathew would be hungry soon and that would also wake him. She decided to stay up all night and have the bottle washed and filled with formula. When Mathew woke he’d have the teat right there at his mouth. There’d be no hunger-crying. Just normal silence.
    The swelling hadn’t closed his eye but thankfully his eye white was bloodshot and the top of his cheek was shiny as if it might go purple. Under the morning sun Shane looked enough like he was the loser, which Moira was grateful for, though she’d never tell him. He’d lost some skin off his knuckles and his ribcage was red and risen near his armpit but his face looked the worst, as if he’d lost easily. Shane wouldn’t let her fuss with soapy water. He was acting brave, which Moira knew meant embarrassed. She was giving him sour looks, her lips pursed, disapproving of him, but he didn’t give her any. He usually would—he had no time for sour looks punishing him. She relaxed her lips to let him know she was nearing the end of punishing him.
    ‘So you’re not going tell me what happened?’ she said.
    He shook his head and said, ‘Why’s the baby sleeping with us?’
    ‘He didn’t make a sound. And you slept good. Tell me what happened to you. Did it involve police?’
    ‘Nah.’ He shook his head again.
    The sun was the colour of glass. Hot glass spilled from it, or so the light seemed. It poured through or over any obstacle in its path—scrub and tree tops. The trees pointed the way along the ground. The porch held no shade