flip the bird

It’s the night of the beach bonfire. The pile of sticks on the sand has grown steadily over the last few weeks, the sun sucking the moisture from the gas-white branches.

We’re killing time in the pop-up soft-top of the Kombi van. The air in the cabin is a combination of scrambled eggs and baked beans, stale bed sheets, the wet smell of fridge and kerosene. Ange groans. I look over the top of the book balanced on my knees at my younger sister.