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crack a smile. He never did, which made it even funnier.
    â€˜I’ve got to find some reception up the hill, make some calls.’ Dad headed for the car, grabbing his new phone off the front seat. He had bought himself and Mum new phones on the way up the coast and dumped their old ones in a bin outside the store. He walked off up the dirt road.
    Ben watched until he disappeared around the corner. Mum went back to the far side of the clearing to lie on a rock in the sun. Olive sang loudly to herself and marched up and down a tree branch, barking orders to invisible people on the ground – something about her kingdom and loyal subjects. Ben wandered into the cabin. He looked up into the open roof space, his eyes settling on the crumpled black plastic sitting on a timber slat toward the back of the cabin.
    Ben pushed the door closed and crossed the floor. He climbed onto the dark timber workbench to get a better view. He would be quiet and get this over with quickly.

He stood on his tiptoes and strained to see but he was too far away. Dad had used a chair to reach into the roof area but Ben was not tall enough for that.
    Hungry.
    So hungry. He had eaten a tiny morsel of chocolate as they cleaned up the cabin but that was it.
    He slipped down from the hardwood bench and tried to push it but it wouldn’t budge. He moved in behind the bench and put all his weight against it, shoving with everything he had. It moved a few centimetres, grinding across the wooden floor. He gave it another push then crept to the door and looked out. No Dad. Mum still lying, lizard-like, on her rock on the opposite side of the clearing.
    Ben rushed back across the cabin floor and pushed the bench about ten centimetres. He stopped, listened, breathed hard, shoved it another ten. Another low wood-on-wood groan. He wondered if he’d be able to reach the plastic now, but decided he needed to get another metre closer. He ran to the door and checked again, heart thumping lickety-split. Mum rolled over on her rock to face the cabin.
    â€˜What are you doing?’ she called across the clearing.
    â€˜Nothing,’ he yelled back. ‘Just bored.’
    â€˜Well, find something to do,’ she said, closing her eyes. Olive was at the base of the tree now, still addressing her loyal subjects.
    He ducked back inside. He would have to push the bench across the floor in one almighty shove. It would be loud but otherwise it would take forever and Dad would return. He gripped the thick timber edges of the old bench, stretched one leg back behind him and readied himself.
    â€˜One, two, three . . .’ he whispered. The bench screamed across the floor and came to a stop. So loud. He stood, breathless.
    â€˜Hi,’ said a voice. Ben’s heart leapt from his throat. He turned to the door.
    â€˜Shhh!’ he hissed at Olive. ‘Get out!’
    She stood there, bottom lip out, then she pointed at him and screamed, ‘YOU’RE MEAN!’ and ran away.
    Ben eased the door closed. He heard Mum ask what had happened. He jumped up on the bench, reaching as high as he could. His fingers managed to push the black plastic aside enough to scrape the bottom of something, but not quite enough to get a hold on it. He reached again and opened the plastic further.
    Ben recognised the bag as soon as he saw it. It was grey nylon with black handles. He positioned his toes on the very edge of the bench and reached for the stars, pinching a corner of the grey nylon. He steadied himself and pulled at the tiny corner of material. He seized a handful of bag and lost balance, falling off the edge of the bench and pulling the bag down on top of him. Large clumps of something fell out.
    Ben landed awkwardly on his side. One of the clumps that had fallen from the bag lay on the floor in front of his face, lashed together with an elastic band. Ben took it in his hand and sat up. A serious-looking man with a large forehead, thick