A cloudless spring day. Jean and I skip uni to see the wildflowers. Brunette locks blowing out the windows of her yellow Getz, Jeff Buckley’s Grace playing on repeat. Up ahead, a road train curves a bend in the Great Eastern Highway. Swaying. I don’t know why. Veering to the wrong side. One. Still shimmying. Two. Straight for us. Three. The tanker rights itself, swerving back into its lane. Whoosh. The beastly mass of metal careens past, blasting its horn, it thunders and shudders like a death rattle. The smell of burning ash. Not me. Not yet. Not today.