The Hands by Stephen Orr

parallel with then moved away from the train track; crossed low hills, a bridge, then back towards the east–west line. He felt himself tiring, drifting, jumping back to life. Winding down his window, he turned up the music.
    The desert was dark, gone from sight. The only world they could see was the one their lights created: asphalt, the monotony of distance markers. There were stars but they were just a blur through dusty windows. The only sound in their movable world was Human Nature , tyres, and the occasional muttered comment.
    â€˜Mr Runkorn looks like he’s been ’round a while,’ Trevor said.
    â€˜He crushed my hand,’ Harry replied, as he remembered his principal’s sweaty palm and wedding ring.
    â€˜Did you say thank you?’ Carelyn asked.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Show me.’ She took his certificates and read what she could in the dark. ‘ His willingness to help out? ’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜I think this belongs to that other Harry Wilkie.’
    Aiden was caught up with his iPod. He took off his headphones and looked at his brother. ‘You been ridin’ my bike?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Mum, has he?’
    The car drifted. Trevor suddenly woke, unaware of where he was. He grabbed the steering wheel and they shot off across the road. Carelyn and Harry screamed as their fast-moving world of clothes and books and half-eaten chicken and paint and certificates tumbled once, twice, three, four times across the desert, crushing, settling, bushes, grass. The car balanced uneasily on its left side. It started to move and fell back, flat.
    â€˜Dad!’ Harry screamed. He could feel metal wrapped around and entering his right leg.
    No one replied.
    Back on the highway, a road-train stopped. Two men jumped from the cab and ran towards them.
    â€˜Dad!’
    â€˜Get out,’ Aiden said, undoing his and his brother’s seatbelt.
    â€˜I can’t.’
    The truck drivers were looking in. ‘Everyone okay?’ one of them asked.
    â€˜The boys,’ Trevor managed.
    â€˜You alright, boys?’ One of the truckies tried Aiden’s door. ‘No, it’s crushed shut,’ he said, before running back to the truck. ‘I’ll call for help.’
    Trevor looked at the cold liquid on his arm. He touched it and studied his blue and green fingers. Looked over at his wife. She seemed to be asleep, still clutching Harry’s certificates. ‘It’s okay,’ he said to her. ‘We landed feet first.’
    The second driver came around to her. He opened the door and could see, straight away, from the way her head rested too perfectly on her shoulder. He looked at Trevor. ‘Stay still,’ he said. ‘They’ll be here in no time.’
    â€˜Carelyn?’ Trevor called.
    â€˜You boys okay?’ the truckie asked.
    Aiden was getting out through the window. ‘I can help,’ he said.
    The driver stood back, overcome, thinking what to do, his eyes caught up in the dilemma of the dead woman.
    Aiden had come around to his brother. ‘Shit,’ he said, trying the door. ‘Listen, Harry, it’s just yer leg’s caught, eh?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    Aiden felt the paint on his face, and it went into his eyes. ‘Shit,’ he said, rubbing them, collapsing to his knees. ‘I can’t fuckin’ see.’
    And Trevor, sitting up, replied, ‘Come ’round to me, son.’
    Trevor rolled out of the car and onto the ground. He felt as though every muscle in his body was burning. Nothing was broken, he could tell. Could remember the time he’d come off his trail bike, tumbled, and mashed his leg into a fence post. Aiden (at thirteen) had driven him back to house as he’d told him how to work the gears.
    He sat staring into the darkness, saying, ‘I can help,’ as the voice of the fatter of the two truckies came back, ‘Stay there, let the ambos work out what’s