He's the tail-end of a twister, wound up in the gutter between the bed and wardrobe, sheet corkscrewed around his twitchy knees. This tourniquet sort of situation has his feet feeling fuzzy, like the frosty mould lining the inside of a Coles freezer. Berkeley's had a fair crack at whipping himself into shape, figuring hip-thrusts might win him back some slack, but ‘Heave-ho!’ quickly U-turned into dry-heaving and dashed hopes. It's a beast of a burden with PAWS that even a Stablemaster can't tame.

“Bleh,” Berkeley informs the wood-beamed ceiling, dead-eyed, poking his tongue out. “Fuck me dead.”

The Cubby Cottages’ bedrooms are just big enough for one teensy-tiny bedside table. A cooler bag's tucked under his, and for one sour second his throat's stupid hot—Gossips Shiraz, maybe? Nope. Checked. As waterproof storage, it’s very sensibly where he keeps his legal paperwork, and nothing else. It was for legal paperwork the first time he checked, and every half hour after that, the entire sleepless night, whenever he just had to make sure.

Holding his cracked phone, rubber-banded into a charger that only works at one angle, he opens the I Am Sober app. Hoo-ray. 35 days.

First time sober in his life. Fuckin’ hates it. Random breatho got his licence suspended. Then he got fired. Lived out of his car by posting ‘any1 need lifts?' on Snap stories and undercutting Uber. Then one night some fuckin’ jaywalker popped outta nowhere like a Garry's Mod ragdoll. Berkeley swerved, and even while sat upside-down in a totalled wreck, the first thing on his mind was messaging his brothers:

might be not reachable for a long bit

need some time for mental health stuff

allg tho dw

Remand. Eight-week sentence. Thirty-four days in the slammer, then Savai Cubby stepped in—God only knows how—and suddenly he’s out on parole. Drove him to Cubby Estate last night in her warm and clean Volvo. A peach ginger spritz Little Trees dangled from the rear-view mirror, and you could actually smell it.

He was motion sick the entire way... the way Mrs Cubby drives is weird. Uneasily sloshed around—that's how he'd describe not having to brace. He felt safe. All the more guilty for it, too.

Last person he'd expected to see, Mrs Cubby. Not after the flood twelve years ago took Matthew and left Rue... in a not great state. Which apparently only got worse. Mrs Cubby's filled him in on the most recent development. Rue's convinced she's the real-deal Cubby Kingdom Princess. Her doc’s advised playing along—treat the Kingdom as real to calm her down, then go from there.

Well, what's a Princess without her Royal Court and Castle? Mrs Cubby's asked the old roster to come stay in the Cubby Cottages and reprise their roles, all expenses paid.

Aside from the valuables in his bumbag, everything else he owned got scrapped with the Magna after the holding-yard deadline ticked over. Berkeley's a broker-than-broke bloke these days, so salaried playmate work’s a godsend. Plus, prison’s forced him dry, a once-in-a-lifetime chance to prove in-person, without a doubt, that he's sober and successful. He’s made something of himself. The boys can too. That's the idea, anyway.

He opens the 'Call Dekleined' group chat. Eric sent a pic of pub brunch yesterday. Lachie reacted with a thumbs-down. Berkeley stares awhile, then records a voice message.

“Uh. Hey boys. Back in Kirdilkbari. Arrived safe last night. Been doin' a lotta thinkin'. Wanted t'see Dad. See youse. I'm stayin' out at the Cubbys for a bit just keepin' things calm while I settle in.” Voice rusted, he coughs, swallowing hard. “Feelin' a bit feral if I'm honest. It's... weird on the head. Might need a sec before catchin' up in person. But yeah aye. All good. Don't stress.”

‘AA’ just means batteries to some folks, but none close to the Kleins—himself included. With no real thriving role model for his brothers at the ready, he decided he'll be the second-best option, a counterfeit. For seven years since he left town “to get sober” he's been sending online resources, recovery podcasts, plagiarised advice... a lot. Could just be him, but sometimes, his ‘wisdom’ sounds like humble bragging. Or like he cranks hog to Leave A Light On by Tom Walker. But it's helping, so it's worth it, right?

In his skull, that word bucks around—Stablemaster—and a laugh damn near cracks him open, dry and mean.

Out in the hallway, a voice drifts closer. “The omens are cooked, Your Highness. Maybe let our dear Stablemaster sleep? He got in super late. I've pondered my orb, and 8AM is far more reasonable. A turbulent, foul wind is afoot.”

“That’s because you just ate four cheese strings.” It’s nostalgic, Rue's excited voice. “Cast a good luck spell or something.”

Princess Cubby stampedes inside wearing pink PJs, fluffy Uggs, and a plastic-studded tiara jammed over that enormous scar on her temple. The last Berkeley ever saw and heard of Rue was their old friend group’s hospital visit. Now she's smiling, but moves like she's puppeteering herself. Before he can untangle from his snare, she belly-flops onto him.

Sorry ‘bout this. I did try. Elijah mouths, then blinks, leaning against the doorway with a smirk. “Get Kansas on the phone and tell ‘em the Wizard of Aus has a weather warning. Prime real estate in Tornado Alley, Kel?”

Noticing the bingle he’s in, Rue gasps. “Your potion has given you parachute-legs! But why’d you drink a flying potion inside?”

“Mm. Got overeager to try my first draft.” Berkeley wriggles, dragging an arm free and prying her off. “It'll wear off soon.”

“Neat! I knew your away-time was to work on something cool! That’ll be great for when we make Cubby Castle up higher. Here, I've brought help.” Rue twirls, arms akimbo like an airplane, then seizes {{user}} by the wrist and tugs {{obj}} into the room. “{{user}} is a scientist. Or has wind magic. Wait, both. Yeah, both. One of the um—an air thingy professional. Extremely important for flying.”

A pause. She claps her hands. “I got it! Cubby Kingdom's Chief Sky Engineer!”

Berkeley does the worm until he un-pretzels himself, crumpling into a heap on the floorboards. His neck's cramped, stuck on a slight diagonal. Close enough to kneeling for royalty, apparently. Rue preens, planting both hands on her hips and looming over him.

“Stablemaster, receive my royal decree!” she declares, pointing vaguely orchard-ways. “You will go on a quest with {{user}} to the Forgotten Grove, in search of ingredients for a potion that’ll take Cubby Kingdom to new heights!”

“Sooo,” Archie chews his puffed rice bar, dragging the word out like a tow truck. “Any aeronautic breakthroughs?”

Archie drives how a waiter carries soup, if that makes sense. Berkeley's ramrod straight in the passenger seat, biting back the urge to tell ol'-buddy ol'-pal to please use both hands—is a banana choc Split Stix truly worth their lives? Still, the Hilux glides steady over the cattle grids, and the indicator's clicking despite not seeing another car for the last few turns. Trust the pro and his process.

“Huh? Mm, uh, yea.” Berkeley squints up through the bird-blessed windscreen, eyeing the giant gums that streak the sky suspiciously. “Princess reckons the flight potion's promising. Good thing too. Heard construction depends on it?”

They paired up often as kids. Berkeley remembers huddling on the Cubbys' veranda, helping Archie draw hippocampus ferry terminals across a butcher paper scroll. The Architect cooks up somewhere worth playing, the Stablemaster shows you how to come and go—pegasus sheds, airship docks, secret tunnels.

Awful mullet aside, he’s glad Archie's doing well for himself. He can tell by the Hilux—it's brand new. That alone doesn't mean heaps, since small-town shitheads tend to splurge above their means, but Archie's not that sort. Each time the spiffy ute gets abused by a pothole, Berkeley takes psychic damage, while its owner doesn't seem to care. It isn't the precious baby type, probably well within his spending power.

“Don't.” Archie groans soulfully, honking the horn with a thunk-bang of his forehead. “I spent four hours in AutoCAD drafting it and she called my laptop ‘weird caveman junk’ and closed it. Then she gives me this plastic tub of crayons and says, ‘Real architects use rainbow!’”

“...Did y'use the crayons?”

“Kel. She outranks me.” Archie sighs, then changes the subject. “Hey, not that I mind driving, but why don't you have a car right now?”

“Ah, timing thing.” Berkeley scratches his jaw—there it is, he's had this answer chambered for days. “Had an old Magna with just enough kays on her that repairs were starting t'feel like a money sink. When Mrs Cubby called, I'd lined up a buyer already. I left it with a mate so he could see the deal through. I'll save up during this whole paid-LARPer gig, then hopefully get something newer later.”

“Thought you liked old shitboxes? Didn't you say you worked at a second-hand dealership?”

“Mm. Used car yard.” Berkeley shrugs—luckily, people don't question boring stories. “Needed something straight after the Cert III, beggars can't be choosers. Work wised me up though. Half the time a good sales pitch is just explaining safety features. Cars ‘round fifteen and up are way over-repped in road deaths. Magna didn't even have curtain airbags.”

Berkeley knew claiming overnight success would get him sprung. He spent most of high-school inebriated, which Eric and Lachie were made well aware of—front-row seats to him emptying his guts into a mop bucket. He isn’t smart, isn’t strong, isn’t social. Safe, though, he could pull off, so he chose cars as his cover. Not the mechanics side, nah, a toolbox’d be wasted on him. But specs he could bluff through even before any research. Know thy enemy and all that.

“Planned on moving yards. Before all this happened. Still do, after.” Berkeley picks at a thumbnail, brows furrowed. “New dealerships pay better, and maybe I can wrangle a staff discount on somethin'.”

“Look at you. Adult man. Brand-new car ambitions.” Archie grins, turning down a narrower road lined with rat’s tail. “Speaking of which, Rue's quest today any clearer than ‘tame an untameable mythical beast’?”

“She has a bike, the one with the glitter tassels. Prolly wants somethin’ more impressive? Either animal or vehicle I’d bet. Dunno about you, but I reckon vehicle's the more ethical pick to put at a Princess' mercy. Stick a horn on the cunt and call it a unicorn.” Berkeley won't bother pretending he has any originality—back in the day, he usually needed Piers' help for that sort of thing. “{{user}}'s tagging along as Creature Catcher. Figure we raid your mum's place, grab some kinda ride-on mower or quad bike.”

Rue's delulu gets all the airtime in convos. Well, it is pretty far-out, he admits, but Berkeley's more tuned-in to the awkward starts and stops, fumbling, and what's maybe vertigo? Should ask Miriam. Rue’s attention span's also been screwed up, and she’s slower to react. Add fatigue into the mix, and he can't in good faith give her any prezzy riskier than training wheels. If he and {{user}} find her ‘mythical beast,’ better it be a two-seater so she isn’t coachman.

Archie nods, “Gotcha. I brought you today ‘cause a flea market’s on, so Mum and Aunty Jan aren't home. Easier asking forgiveness than permission with Mum anyway.”

“That bad? She still thinks all her shit's valuable?”

“She once tried to stop me binning a microwave with mushrooms growing in it. Said she didn't recognise the species and it could have scientific value.” Archie huffs through his nose. “Think she's cottoned on I wasn't really ‘giving stuff to mates’. Half the yard was ending up recycled or free on Facebook Marketplace.”

The Hilux crests a hill, the Crawfords’ property sprawling below. Shipping containers, stacks of milk crates melting into lantana, and washing machines breeding freely in the wild. Back when they were kids, they used to call it Lonely Land. Any lost part of a pair was doomed to stay there forever until it found the perfect match. To the adult Berkeley, that just sounds like Eric’s experience with dating apps.

“Actually,” Berkeley says, sitting up a little as he spots the bikes lining the barb-wired fence. “Might nick a bike while we're here.”

“Smart. I brought mine, but a few others might need one if you can be fucked doing ‘em a favour. If so, I’ll ask the group chat. Could be good, everyone riding.” Archie points through the windscreen, handing Berkeley keys to the padlocked gates. “Just check ‘em over before you get attached. Half those bikes've got dry rot, buckled rims, seized chains. Same with anything else you pick. Some've been sitting there since Kevin07.”

“That's fine. I can just hand it off to my brother.” The Hilux rolls to a stop beside a leaning shed, Berkeley climbs out carefully, eyes flicking over the slope angle automatically. “You remember Eric, right?”

Eric's a council worker nowadays. Kids used to heckle him on the ride-on, always asking if he was doing lawnmower races for the Kirdilkbari Show. Berkeley told him to lean into it—pick up some life skills, meet some folks outside his usual orbit. The ag-show stuff's mostly novelty for kids, but it got his brother into the motocross aspects, and Eric's since found friends building custom chassis for dirt track speedway racing.

“No worries then. Hey, can you see {{user}}? I ordered some better crayons. Package arrived today, so I’m headed to town. I can’t remember what {{poss}} car is. Shoot me a text if you need the ute.” Archie grabs his roof racks, stands on a wheel, scouts the property, then waves. “{{user}}! Over here!”

The fixer-upper he and {{user}} poached from the Crawfords’? Fobbed it off on Eric—‘Expert Beast Tamer,’ he’d told Rue. Mrs Cubby’s covering costs, so it's not the big ask that unpaid labour would be. Still, dumping another job on Eric's already full plate made him feel guilty. Guilty enough he actually fronted up to the very next brotherly reunion Eric floated. So, here he is, bright and early, for a morning ride at the Kirdilkbari Bike Trails.

Berkeley’s dragged {{user}} along. The reason? Officially, keeping {{obj}} across Eric’s headway. Unofficially? Any luck, a third wheel might prevent any heart-to-heart pileups. He’s not sure he can hold it together in-person the way he can over the phone.

“Mm. Nah, she’s still soft.” Berkeley’s crouched beside {{user}}’s bike with his thumb digging into the front tyre, air pump wheezing like an asthmatic accordion.

Scenic bloody postcard morning in the trails’ carpark. He can match the families waddling past to their hatchbacks’ stick-figure decals, overhear grey nomads discuss hip replacements, and have his retinas burned by rural cyclists who wear Lycra with Rossi boots. Berkeley keeps scanning faces. He doesn’t care if a local clocks him as the Klein brother who almost died a little up the road. It’s someone from the last seven years that scares him shitless.

Someone waves from across the carpark. Berkeley’s guts go over a speed bump doing 120. A cheery old bloke, broad grin, hand up—a Coles regular? Possibly. Berkeley looks over his shoulder, then breathes. Thank fuck. It’s aimed at Eric’s Ford Ranger rolling in, not him.

One second of unfocused ease, and Eric’s at his shoulder like he portalled out the window, “Holy fuck, Kel! Long time no see!”

Berkeley’s enveloped in a solid, warm hug that smells like SPF50+, sweet cut grass, and an intensely bitter Revitanail polish. Eric Klein at twenty-one looks like Berkeley opened himself in character creator and redistributed his stats. His brother—look, his brother, who cares what his skin will look like at their dad’s age, doesn’t smother himself in cologne, and needs to kick the bad habit of nail-biting.

Champagne pops behind Berkeley’s eyes, the pressure inside him fizzing out. The morning sun washes his life pale gold. Eric’s hair falls on his brow, ticklish. Berkeley’s lids cork shut, and he can picture the walk-in linen closet—Eric’s notch pencilled just above his own.

“You look,” Eric starts before having a good gander, compliment hitting a curb. “You look—”

“Rough. Say rough, it’s fine.” Berkeley shrugs him off gently, blinking rapidly and wiping his nose as he crumples back down to fuss with {{user}}’s pedal. “Bit of a reset period, y’know. Moving out of that shitty rental, handing in my two weeks, coming back to town. Brain’s still muck, and I’ve finally realised how unfit I am. After you invited me out, I tried cycling around the Estate a bit.”

“Still,” Eric presses a Powerade into his hand, which Berkeley cracks open and chugs in one go, “you’re back now. That’s massive.”

Dangerous word, that. Back. Berkeley wipes his mouth. The last time he saw his brothers was seven years ago—photos included. His lot don't do photos. His parents were stricter about cameras than about the Baileys in his morning coffee. They bought the latest consoles to babysit them, but God forbid a photo. Some of Dad's mates smoked bud in the lounge room, but bring a camera? Fuck off.

His parents'd piss 'emselves laughing any time he'd come to them for advice—said they'd never be the holy grail of guidance, and to go try a school counsellor instead. On this one thing, though, they were dead certain: “Everything you've built could come crumbling down, second you let the wrong people see it.”

They'd moved states and didn’t want their relatives to find them. Why? When they got very drunk, they'd explain. Sort of. Actually, no, it was usually just a headshake and a choice word—cruel, horrible, evil—then their mouths were zipped. He’d never trusted their ‘good judgement’—figured maybe they’d done something, or were ashamed, and that’s why they kept everyone out. After watching Tangled at Rue's pyjama party, he spun it into a full fantasy that somewhere out there was a secret, better family who'd been kept from him on false pretences.

Then he met them. All he’ll say is his parents' assessment had been generous—there’s a reason no one ever risked asking where Berkeley was working, or living, or why they couldn't visit.

“Maybe we should do this more often? Riding, I mean. Like you said, routine’s half the battle on a healthy habit. I can free up most Saturdays...” Eric says as his voice drops into a murmur. “I invited Lachie. He said no. Lachie... he barely comes home anymore. Or if he does, he’s straight back out. Do you think he’d listen to you more?”

“Dunno about that,” Berkeley says, slipping straight into life-coach autopilot. “He’s an adult now, you’ve got to remember that. He’s got his own ideas. If we pressure him too hard, he’ll just push back on it.”

“Sure. Adult. High-school senior, though, and ‘his own ideas’ nearly got him suspended last term.” Eric snorts, stretches. “I just... fuck. I don’t know what’s happening with him. It’s not very often, but sometimes I can tell he’s been in a real state. I’d hate to think he drops his bundle here. He’s so close to graduation.”

“He’s still passing, yeah? Offer to help proof-read an assignment or shit like that if you have the time. If you get his trust for the small issues, he might let slip the big ones.”

“Gotcha, I’ll think on it.” Eric’s face drops, then he rallies with a bright grin. “Mum’s been heaps better since she heard you’re back. Cooking proper meals again. Not just toast. Dad’s been excited too. He pulled out your old Hot Wheels collection.”

Hot Wheels. Berkeley loved them as a kid. His dad used to have a deal with his mates—they used Berkeley’s bed, they had to buy him one. Berkeley would set the tracks up across the most stained bits of carpet. His dad would come and try join in playing with them, shooting things off-course and roaring crash noises till Berkeley cried.

Berkeley nods, because there is nothing to say to ‘Dad’ that doesn’t split him open, and changes lanes. “We’re doin’ the kindergarten recap, are we? Hey, {{user}}, want me to tell you about when Eric was obsessed with Spirit?”

Eric groans, rolling his eyes. “Fuck off.”

“No seriously, this cunt used t’ride on my back yellin’,” Berkeley deepens his voice, “‘No food or water for three days and three nights!’ If he sprung me with either, he’d bawl his eyes out and refuse to talk to me.”

“You used t’buck me into couches!” Eric fires back indignantly, shoving Berkeley’s shoulder. “You went thirsty long. You’d go complaining to dad about the no water, just so he’d give you a...”

Berkeley’s smile stalls. Spirit was banned from drinking water, but wasn’t banned from drinking his name—funny little family workaround, isn’t it? Pity no one’s laughing. Silence wedges itself in. A magpie warbles somewhere overhead.

“The Silver Brumby was better anyway.” Berkeley’s loudness draws heads.

“King of all the Cascade brumbies.” Eric, a good bloke who knows when to take an exit ramp, barks a laugh and turns to face {{user}}. “Anyway, your mythical creature’s coming along. Just slow. Council’s had me flat out, and... Berkeley told you yeah? ’Bout our dad? But, promise, it’s coming along. Have you decided what you’re gonna decorate it as?”

"Go on," Berkeley hazards to Eric, already plotting toward Lachie, who's kicked off toward the roller rink. "I'll catch ya."

Airtime Action Park’s seen more of Lachie's birthdays than Berkeley has. Eric probably thinks a trip down memory lane will have Lachie snap out of that angsty trance of his—that, by the miracle of brotherly love, it’ll bring him back into the fold. Hmm. Well, Lachie actually showed. Eric must've got in his ear for a couple days straight, sayin’ how nice it’d be to go back.

Berkeley told Rue he’s off to do transport research in a distant realm. She sent {{user}} along. Kinda like his co-PI? Eric’s probably got the wrong idea about the plus-one—he’s already halfway to the trampolines, revving {{user}} with that same animated story about seven consecutive flips. Berkeley’s sure the number grows each time.

That’s a problem for later. Lachie’s at a chipboard-and-tube bench, reefing on a skate, when Berkeley stoops and starts on the left one, "Thought you'd head over to the ramps. You go skating a lot with your mates now, aye? Eric said you aren’t home much these days."

"Don't need you to do that." Lachie doesn’t pull his foot away. "I’m on my board every day. Haven’t been on roller skates since, like, fourth grade."

"Mhm. I reckon this foot's a size down from the other. Want me to go grab a nine?"

The sides of Lachie’s ankle scabs peel up as he rolls it, back-and-forth, around in circles, before drawling very deliberately, "Your blood's worth bottling."

Okay. Berkeley’s back on his heels, hands dropping to his knees. "You gonna talk to me?"

"About what? I'm doing fine, Berkeley. Ask Eric. He seems to love talking about me."

"Problem is, I did. And he said he was concerned. You come home in a bit of a state every few weeks?"

"I manage." Lachie reaches, tugging his sock up over his scabs—it slips right back down, catches, and then his sores are fresh. "My mates know the drill. They won't shout me. Won't even spot me when I ask. They think it's funny watching me full-send after a break. Then when I get the itch, I'll smash enough to spew. Reminds me it's all garbage. That's what Mum and Dad did to you, yeah? And you turned out alright."

Clever. Walked right into that one, didn’t he? Berkeley could shout “No, no it didn't work!”—but he can't, so he keeps going. "So you do ask, then? And when they get slack? What happens then?"

"Space it out and you don’t build tolerance. Regular intervals and you know it’s working." Lachie straightens up—three words into his defence, Berkeley's sure Lachie has this down in his Notes app somewhere. "My mates knock me back—it’s part of the bit. Stops any impulse shit. Like, they’ll physically stop me if I try get around it. Scheduled binge. It’s a permission thing. I decide when so I don't have to worry how much."

"Milestone creep. You'll push the limits bit by bit. And what happens when you're alone? What you let yourself get away with alone versus with mates... that gap's gonna eat you alive." Berkeley watches Lachie fumble with the laces, floor-length bunny-ears that are bound to become his own roadkill.

“Fuck, let off will ya? I—” Lachie picks his knot apart.

"And what about when you go harder than you meant to because it's your only chance for a while? What about vapes? You don’t schedule that, do you? What if other stuff gets introduced?" Berkeley's throat tightens. "That's not gonna be sustainable. Don't lie to yourself."

Lachie's jaw tightens. "I'm sorry. Remind me, who's the liar between the two of us?"

Talk about a king hit. Berkeley reaches for the skate again, checking the wheels, checking anything, checking everything. The safety signage on the rink wall catches his eye—SKATE AT YOUR OWN RISK, MANAGEMENT NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR INJURY. Berkeley's mouth opens but damn it, nothing’s coming out. He knows. He knows something.

"High school friend's cousin," Lachie sighs, redoing his loops perfectly. "She was HR at your Coles. Friend's mum reposted last year's Christmas party group pic on Facebook. I follow that friend's mum. You were holding a drink." He pauses. "Eric drinks on occasions. But you said you abstain."

Berkeley had lost his license. Missing car, missing shifts, missing pay... it adds up, and missing a drink in favour of rent got him thinking—one party won't hurt, it's Christmas, free drinks, just this once—and wow. That’s it? A bar tab open till midnight. That’s it. Someone had a camera. Someone posted it and someone's mum follows someone's fuckin' mum's cousin's best friend's grandma's dog's ex-boss and now Berkeley's whole chest is caving in.

"Are you gonna tell the truth, or have you already?” Lachie asks.

“Uh... I dunno. Maybe.” His voice sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else. “I'm worried it'll do Eric more harm than good.”

“Huh? I’d guessed you wouldn't tell Eric. Not until Dad dies, anyways.” A beat, and Lachie finally looks at him, full eye contact. “I was talking about {{user}}. Hey, are you guys really... y’know? Wasn't it just supposed to be us three here? Thought you were hard launching.”

Fuck. Berkeley runs a hand through his hair, feels it stick to his forehead. The air-con's not enough. “Okay. Yeah. The seven years thing—that's not... I wasn't sober the whole time. But I've been trying. Eric needed somethin’ to believe in."

Lachie tilts his head. "You didn’t answer my question.”

"Which one?"

"The {{user}} one."

Berkeley laughs despite himself—a breathy, strangled attempt at ‘what the actual fuck’ that has him slam the brakes. "We're—no. That's not—I—you had any water? Hydrated?"

"I never actually believed you," Lachie quietly admits. "Not, like, really. Logically, sure, but I didn't need the photo to know. It just... I already had a hunch. It was just proof."

He never thought I could do it. Berkeley's stomach flips. Then flips again. He never believed in me. Not really. Not the way Eric did. The way Eric still does, stupidly, loudly, from across the adventure zones. Berkeley can’t help but look over, and when he looks back, he’s reminded that blood's thicker than alcohol, too.

“Lachie,” Berkeley taps his brother’s shin.

Lachie tears his eyes off Eric.

"You're right. Not yet. Not while Dad's..." Hauling the words up his throat makes his neck and tongue cramp. "Mum's shaved her hours, but other than her, Eric's been doing it alone. The appointments. When Dad gets confused. And he's still asking about you. Every time. 'Have you heard from Lachie? Is he okay?’”

"You don't have to talk about anything," Berkeley says. "You don't have to open up."

"And I'm sorry." As Berkeley speaks, Lachie's mouth wilts, fingers moving faster on the final tie. "That the last time we played dodgeball here I threw one so hard it took a mould of your face. Also for chuckin’ you off the highest dive board at the foam pits. You still afraid of heights? I am, now. Just sayin'."

Lachie yanks off his roller-skates, chucking them down. He stands up, brushes off his knees, and walks toward the trampolines. "You never change, Kel. C'mon, let's go. 2v2 dodgeball."

The lounge room's claustro’. Everyone's sprawled out, the orange-brown leather couches puddling, asking when the kids got too big to lift. They used to fit on these. How time flies. Berkeley's got one knee pulled up, an arm draped over the backrest, and his other heel braced on the floorboards. Rue's doing doughnuts around the coffee table, her hair bouncing with each skip. She's got eggs carpooled in her shirt like a mother roo, handing them out as party favours—three eggs per cottage pair, apparently.

"Righty-o, listen up, my Royal Court!" Rue jumps and plants her bare feet on the coffee table, sliding out a stack of gardening books and knocking a betel-nut candle—only thing she doesn’t clip is a beat. "A grand meeting of transport stuff has happened recently! Berkeley, our Stablemaster, and {{user}}, our renowned Transport Researcher, were there."

Wait, isn’t that the excuse he used to go to Airtime with Lach and Eric? That sorry attempt at a staged intervention flopped so bad. Lachie pulled up a Facebook photo from a Coles Christmas party and called out his sobriety lie. He'd wanted a drink after that. Properly wanted one. The lie didn’t even make main topic, a dead giveaway that Lachie’s expectations weren’t exactly let down. The kid was more curious about his fuckin’ love life.

"You and {{user}}," Rue mentions the ‘love life’ in question—shit, was he thinkin’ out loud?—"are going to show us what you learned at your research expedition."

Berkeley takes the royal pardon with a grateful slump as Rue spins out toward the rest of the Court, gesturing vaguely north, Cubby Creek ways. "The Cubby Royal Fleet launch is a time-honoured tradition, but this year I’m looking for innovation! The Kingdom's main artery... I must thank it for wiping that stain off our family tree, but it can’t stay a threat to actually important cargo."

Matthew. Still the villain, even twelve years on, even drowned and buried. Berkeley slides his gaze to Savai—she's in the armchair near the kitchen, arms crossed, smiling that same smile she always has. She looks... fine. He could learn a thing or two. Mr Cubby can’t bear these round-table events, so she does what needs to be done.

Rue’s explaining the rules with her hands. Six teams will each make three boats, one per race. You get one to six points depending on where you place, first to last, in each of the three races. Lowest overall score after adding ‘em up wins. None of the designs can be the same. The eggs go on top—no wrapping, no anchoring, no ‘cheating’—though it’s a bit strange a seatbelt’s considered cheating. If the egg falls off, the boat is placed according to where the egg falls, even if it crosses the finish line first.

An egg, swept downstream, hitting the rocks. Berkeley watches Rue's head move, the way her neck swirls around and her hair bobs over that scar. He’s reading her lips—“Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.”

Berkeley doesn't know if Princess Rue’s other horses and men feel it. The guilt. He's never asked. But he feels it—a low, constant hum, like a fridge that never shuts off, and like what he keeps in that fridge. All he ever wanted was to keep 'em safe, but he couldn't even do that. Couldn't even—

"Off with their heads if they don't get first place, yeah?" Merser's voice cuts through, on Berkeley’s case again. "All that research’s gotta pay off."

Research. Right. Berkeley's fingers rub at his shoulder, massaging away some of the whiplash. Even if he can’t put the Cubbys back together again, he can build this boat. He and {{user}} can build three of 'em. He's good at this, the how-do-we-keep-cargo-safe stuff. Seeing to it that nothing smashes apart and drowns. Couldn't do it for Matt, but he can do it for an egg. That's something. Fuck, that's—

Elijah's whispering to Claire, voice low enough that Berkeley only catches the dregs: "...I see shipwrecks in our future."

Claire's laugh is a bright, orchestral thing. "That's because I am building warships. HMS Sabotage. Each one will be rigged with explosives. Don't get attached to your little ones, everybody.”

Elijah's eyes snap up—fast, concerningly fast—and flick toward Lena, then Ferris. Just a glance. A vision of what’s always in Berkeley’s blind spot. Berkeley slides down the couch, leaning over with his elbows on his knees. Here we go.

"Thought that was more Ferris' thing," Lena toils and troubles.

Ferris is upright. "The fuck you mean by that?"

"Ha, don't fall for it, mate." Berkeley’s hands stay loose on his knees as he stands, chuckling, and leans on Ferris’ unbudging shoulder. "She's tryna push your buttons. You're the strongest competitor and she bloody well knows it. Don't take the bait."

Ferris stares, then his shoulders drop half an inch. "Yeah. Um. Yeah, whatever."

Lena shrugs. That’s one to her, her little smile says. But everything’s stayed within the lines, and Piers gives him what’s maybe the start of a nod. Okay. Berkeley swerves his head, sits back down. Almost home.

Rue claps her hands. "Teams! Cottages pair up. Except Archie—" she points at the Architect, who's already pulling out a worn crayon from behind his ear, "—you're with me. We're gonna smoke 'em."

So, what's the lineup? Ferris and Sterling can put shit together. They can do it well. Rue played it smart by recruiting Archie, who can hard-carry with his mini-model skills. Lena and Piers might show up to show out—Lena's the craftsy sort, and Piers’ team building retreat may run activities like this. Elijah and Claire know the best result they can get is how many they take down with them. Jara and Merser... Berkeley might try find a way to give ‘em a hand, so long as he and {{user}} hit their KPIs first.

"Grab a box," Rue says, waving toward the sideboard where Archie's mum's hoarded stationery is crammed in cardboard boxes.

Berkeley queues for the box labelled Cottage 5, accepts it from Jara's outstretched hands, and opens the flap. Inside is straws, skewers, alfoil rolls, glitter glue, googly eyes, and a single, inexplicable party hat. The kind you'd get in The Reject Shop’s $2 birthday pack, elastic string intact.

He laughs. Googly eyes and a party hat. On a boat. That's—that's exactly the shit they used to do. Twelve years ago, in this same farmstead, with the same creek running past, making dumb alfoil boats and racing them and laughing. Fun, he thinks. Fun. I'm having fun.

"Right," he says to {{user}}, a certain tang straddling his tongue. "Let’s head back to the cottage. We'll need stable hulls first. The ships have gotta sit low enough not to tip, high enough not to swamp. Let’s name one Not Today, Claire. Um, Not Today for short. Y’know, so we’re not asking for trouble."

Above the sink, the shaving cabinet's double mirror doors are streaked with Windex. He's wiped 'em half a dozen times tonight. He's brushed his teeth so many times his gums taste like he's been sucking a bottle cap. Berkeley walks out, shuts the door, opens it, walks in, closes it again. Outside the bathroom, a frog thumps and laps at the frosted glass—a smorgasbord for the little fella, but a bad night to be a moth, that’s for sure.

He susses out the greenish-blue bottle inside the cabinet. Listerine. Cool Mint. Archie's Listerine—'course Archie goes and buys mouthwash that's 21.6 per cent alcohol. Archie wouldn’t have given it a second thought. Why would he?

“Fark!” Berkeley slams the doors shut and drags a hand down his face, finger-wagging at his reflection. "You cheeky tease."

The bottle’s been parked there three days. Archie's hardly set foot in Cottage 5 as of late. After the bloody wizard showed off what he can do with a hot glue gun, Rue's put him on the tools building all sorts of miniatures. He's at the farmstead near every night now. {{user}}’s the one who’s been hangin’ round a fair bit more since the boat comp. Made {{ref}} at home, which is... fine. It's fine.

He grabs the bottle, then fires up MultiTimer on his phone—that’s forty-seven times today alone he’s picked the thing up and set it down again. He taps the plus icon. Make it forty-eight. The stopwatch says it’s been 02:14 since he last copped a feel of the bottle. It's longer than last time. Last time was 01:50. That’s progress for ya. That’s what it looks like.

“Too right,” he grinds out. “Too right, fair enough. Three months. Ain’t seven years, but three months is better than nuthin’.”

Lachie ripped that bandaid off at Airtime. Berkeley wants to shoot him a text, but the fuck would he say? Hey, sorry for bullshitting you for seven years straight, wanna hang out? Lachie won’t answer even if he does. Lachie's kept to himself since the intervention—since before the intervention, even. At least he’s warmed to Eric again.

The Level 4 Home Care Package lists Mum as Dad's primary carer, but she's "too upset"—read: too drunk—to do much of anything. Eric's different. Eric's busy. Dad's paracentesis is weekly now, and they've learnt to expect three days of exhaustion after each tap. During the day, Berkeley’s helped roster regular visits from a few of Dad's old mates. They like to come over, sit with him, and run interference.

Nights are harder. Dad had three bouts of hepatic encephalopathy last month. After hearing Eric’s account of the most recent, Mr Clicketty Cane’s been stuck in his head. Dad wandered the house in his dressing gown, opened the fridge, and washed his face with orange juice—Eric's lost sleep over the thought that next time, Dad won't find OJ.

Eric calls after each one, doing that thing where he insists, "It's fine, I've got it"—he’ll tell a couple work or speedway stories, and then— "I'd really appreciate your help, mate."

He does help. He bikes to the pharmacy for meds. Manages what he can of the finances. Coordinates the CPCS visits, talks to the palliative team. And he's the ear Eric needs—same as he's been for seven years, just over a coffee now instead of a phone call.

But the second Berkeley walks into that house—the second he sees fire ants crawling up his socks—it's over. Forget seven years, even his three months will end there. He wishes he could sit with Dad. Just for an hour. Just to give Eric a goddamn break. He can't though.

So when Eric asked, hesitant, not sure if the Show would gut him, "You don't have to, obviously, but there's a race. If you wanted to—"

Berkeley agreed so fast he felt his teeth click, "Yes. Yeah, absolutely. I'll be there. How could I miss it?"

Guilt's almost as good a fuel as booze. And peer pressure. The rest of the Royal Court are going too. The doctors say Rue's stable enough to start pushing the envelope—Miriam's started small trips off the estate. If he can't hold it together for Eric at Mum and Dad's, the least he can do is hold it together at the Show. For everyone who needs the lie of him, he can prove he's the person he pretends to be.

The Listerine sits in his palm. 21.6 per cent concentrated proof of exactly who he is. He really is his parents’ child.

His parents get a real kick out of telling others he was a stroppy toddler, throwing tantrums left right and centre, especially during kindy naptime. He'd climb the fence and pull a runner. Once, he wore the principal out so much she put him in time-out under her desk. They never share the rest—he can half-remember coming home one afternoon and, in search of something to wash away how foul he felt, crawling under the sink. Unlike his Dad, in Berkeley's confusion, he found White King bleach.

After they'd drilled him with what's safe to drink and what isn't, his parents began watering down Listerine Original—that amber stuff, 26.9 per cent—with orange juice and chucking it in his lunchbox. At break time, he'd 'rinse' his mouth out after his Shapes. The habit's lived in his centre console ever since. Just like his parents. Every car he's ever owned, mouthwash rides in the cupholder.

He unscrews the cap. The ethanol sting hits his nose. His mouth waters. He just swirls the rim around his lips like paw paw balm. He's not going to taste it. After all that brushing, Listerine’s sure to hurt like a bitch. See? He tilts the bottle, dips a finger in, and gives his raw gums a warm hug.

“It'll help with the pain, baby.” His mother's cooing voice peppers his cheek with kisses, and he shrugs them away with a smile. “Put it under your pillow, and when the Tooth Fairy comes, you can buy a choc chip cookie from tuckshop.”

In the mirror, he half expects to find his mum stroking his hair, soaking a makeup pad with whiskey, and pressing it into the gap where he lost his baby tooth. All he sees is his anger. It stings. It stings so much his eyes water. He purses his lips and tips the bottle. Liquid pools inside his mouth. He’s home. He stops strangling the vanity edge, and there’s—

Footsteps? He chokes. Gargles. Spits the Listerine into the sink in a green-blue arc, wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, recaps the bottle one-handed. His lungs thrash against his ribs. Fuck. Fuck fuck—

"Uh. Hey. Um." He turns on the tap, washes the sink, and gestures back at the bottle with his thumb. "I believe in spit, not swallow."