"Well, it's done," Paul's voice came through the phone with a mix of relief and fatigue.
"Good," I replied, then added, "and forty million over budget."
Paul gave a short, dry laugh. "Eight months in the cold, remember? And also our director didn't help much."
The production had been grueling. Nature was its own antagonist, and Alejandro Iñárritu brilliant as he was had chased perfection with the patience of a monk. The shoot had stretched far beyond our original plan. We all knew what we were getting into, but still… forty million.
"Well, we need this thing out by December," I said firmly.
"Yes, I know," Paul replied. "We're aiming for that. Post will be intense but doable."
"I want you completely focused on this," I continued. "I'll have others work on the other projects."
"I can still…"
"No," I cut him off. "We're not getting dragged back for another reshoot just because a cloud passed the wrong way."
Paul laughed again, a bit more genuinely this time. "Alright. I'll make sure everything goes smoothly."
"I'll see you in a few days," I said, and ended the call.
It was morning. The sun spilled through the windows, flooding the wide living room with light. The station was quiet…too quiet, really. It was our second day here, and the sense of remoteness had started to settle in, that eerie kind of calm where you started to hear your own heartbeat when the wind dropped.
Margot walked in from upstairs, looking as if she'd barely slept…which was not surprising; she hadn't. She'd woken me up three times in the middle of the night, convinced she'd heard something inside or outside the house. Once, she was sure she saw a shape on the veranda. The other two were just noises…creaks, thuds, faint dragging sounds. Things old houses do, I told her.
"If it isn't my favorite ghostbuster," I teased, sipping my coffee.
Margot flipped me off without hesitation, walking straight into the kitchen. She poured herself some of the coffee I'd made earlier, cradling it like it was the only thing keeping her alive.
"We should go on a hike today," she said after her first sip, her voice a little scratchy.
"Oh? Anything to stay away from the house?" I asked, smirking.
"No," she replied flatly. "Glenn offered to guide us."
"Mm‑hmm. It's not because you think the place is haunted?"
She rolled her eyes. "No. It's not."
I grinned. "Because last night you were pretty sure you heard a ghost rattling chains."
Margot stared at me over the rim of her mug. "I was sure I heard something. Not my fault you sleep like you're dead."
I leaned in a little. "Oh my God—what's behind you?"
She spun around on instinct.
I burst out laughing.
She turned back slowly, eyes narrowed. "You are such a dick."
Still laughing, I watched her walk off toward the back porch, mug in hand, muttering something about me.
====
We went on the hike with Glenn guiding us across the vast sprawl of Jackson's Station all 30,000 acres of it. The terrain was as varied as it was endless; scrubland gave way to ancient gullies, dry creek beds twisted like old scars through the soil, and low hills rose in quiet defiance of the horizon. The sky stretched out forever.
Glenn pointed out old boundary lines, weather‑beaten fences, windmills rusting in silence. We saw wedge‑tailed eagles overhead, even the bleached skull of some long‑dead animal. He gave us a crash course on the Outback—both history and myth.
I may have encouraged him to tell more ghost stories just to mess with Margot.
By the time we returned, dusk had cast a burnt‑orange light into every crevice of the land. Our legs ached, dust coated our boots, and sweat had dried into salt.
As we walked back toward the homestead, I asked, "Hey, Glenn, why is there a hole near the house?"
He looked over, suddenly alert. "Oh, fuck. Did the covering fall off again?"
"I think so," I said. "Saw it this morning, on the far side of the main house."
Glenn sighed. "That was for the rain‑water tank base. We were digging it out last month supposed to have it installed, but there were delays. Contractors flaked damn those cheating scoundrels."
He shook his head. "I'll sort it. We'll get it covered before anyone falls in."
Before we made our way back inside, a sudden rustle of movement caught Margot's attention.
"Oh, look," she said, pointing just past the edge of the cleared yard.
Through the gloom, the familiar hulking silhouette of Archie the kangaroo emerged, leisurely hopping across the dusty path near the shed.
Margot smiled. "God, he's so cute."
Archie paused briefly to sniff at a clump of grass, completely unbothered by our presence, then continued on his way slow, steady hops.
From behind us, Glenn's voice drifted over. "Don't want the rangers catching sight of him."
I turned slightly. "What?"
But Glenn was already walking toward his quarters, giving a casual wave. "Night, you two!"
We got inside the house, and later, as the sun had completely set, we found ourselves sitting outside by the fire pit, a small blaze flickering in front of us while we roasted marshmallows.
The stars were beautiful. The Milky Way stretched from one horizon to the other like someone had dragged a white paintbrush across velvet. Unreal. So bright it didn't feel real.
The crickets sang endlessly, a high, jittery sound that rose from the grass in waves. An owl called from somewhere far away. Something small, maybe a lizard, maybe something else rustled through dry leaves not far off. The wind came and went in purposeful bursts, cold and dry, brushing our skin like fingertips.
One thing that stood out was the old shed. It looked worse at night: sagging roofline, crooked walls.
Margot's eyes had been fixed on it for a few minutes. She wasn't speaking.
I followed her gaze, then looked back at her. "See something?" I asked.
She didn't answer immediately; she just kept staring at it, eyebrows slightly furrowed, lips pressed tight.
I threw another stick into the fire.
"There's nothing there," I said, glancing over.
She tore her eyes away, trying to sound casual. "Yeah. I know. I was just looking."
"You don't sound like someone who doesn't care," I teased.
"Let's talk about something else," Margot said. "What about … Weinstein? You haven't given me an update on that."
I sighed. "Oh, yeah. That. It's going to be slow."
Margot tilted her head. "You've got evidence. You're working with journalists. Why not just pull the trigger?"
I looked out at the empty land, my voice lowering. "Because he's not just some gross producer. He's an institution. People have tried, Mags…investigators, journalists, people inside the studios. They wrote exposés, filed complaints, tried to speak up and every time, it vanished. Articles got pulled. People were silenced with NDAs, threats, lawsuits scared into hiding or ruin."
She was quiet.
"He's got pull," I continued. "Still. Even now. He built the system around himself PR, legal, media. Some of those people still owe him their careers. You can't just scream and hope it sticks."
"So what's the plan?"
"We're coordinating with a few new reporters who were already digging on their own. If we take the shot, it has to land. There's only one first strike."
Margot nodded slowly, then asked, "So … do you know how many actresses he"
"Plenty," I said. "But they can be a problem, too. I know one of them is an abuser herself … "
"What?" Margot turned to me, surprised.
I nodded. "Yeah. I haven't told many people this, but … this person once invited me to a private party of our own at the Oscars after‑party. I was just seventeen. Nothing happened, think I was saved by Chris, or was it Tom Hanks, that night? It's kind of blank for me."
Margot exhaled. "So it's like a minefield."
"You've got the right idea," she added, quieter now.
I just nodded, and silence fell between us again.
To change the subject, I decided to set out a challenge. Leaning forward, grinning through the firelight, I said, "I dare you to go to that shed."
Margot didn't even look away from it. "That's a silly dare."
"Then you won't have any problem going over there," I said, nudging her with my elbow.
She turned, giving me a narrow‑eyed look. "Why don't you go, oh brave and great Daniel Adler?"
I stood up immediately. "Sure. Watch and learn."
The wind picked up as I walked away from the fire, its warmth falling off my back while I crossed the cracked earth toward the shadowed outline of the shed. Each step crunched dry grass and gravel underfoot. The closer I got, the more I felt the temperature drop or maybe that was just in my head.
The shed loomed in front of me: slumped roof, rust‑eaten hinges. The door creaked open with almost cinematic timing as I nudged it.
Inside? Nothing, just an empty old structure filled with dust, cobwebs, and the lingering smell of ancient oil and dried eucalyptus. I'd been here earlier when Glenn gave the full tour. I knew there was a back entrance—a warped panel you could slip through easily. Perfect for a prank.
Quietly, I slipped out the back and curved around in the dark. The wind was on my side, brushing through the grass and masking my footsteps. I crouched just outside the glow of the fire pit and watched.
Margot was still standing in front of the house, arms crossed. At first, she looked relaxed maybe thinking I'd pop back out after a few minutes. Then I saw her posture shift: a glance toward the shed, a frown, her head tilted as if listening.
She called out, "Danny?"
I didn't move.
She waited, then tried louder: "Dan!"
I stayed put.
A few more minutes passed. I saw her jaw tighten, her body tensing as she tried to psych herself up. Then, slowly, she began walking toward the shed, her footsteps cautious.
I crept forward in the dark, silent as I could. She reached the entrance but didn't go inside—just hovered near the doorway, peering in as if expecting something to jump out.
That was my cue.
"Hey," I whispered just over her shoulder.
She screamed—full‑body, arms‑flailing scream—and spun around, swinging. I took two hits to the chest and one to the shoulder before she realized it was me.
"You absolute asshole!" she yelled, hitting me again.
I was laughing too hard to speak.
She turned on her heel and stormed back toward the house.
"Come on," I called after her, still grinning. "It was funny!"
"No, it wasn't!" she shouted without turning around.
I jogged after her, still laughing, savoring a bit of revenge for the spider pranks she'd pulled on me back at her place.
====
Margot was brushing her hair in the mirror when I stepped out of the bathroom, a towel slung over my shoulder and an expression just sheepish enough to sell the apology.
"Come on," I said, flopping onto the bed. "I'm sorry."
She didn't even turn around. "It wasn't funny."
"It was a bit funny," I muttered.
Margot spun to face me, one eyebrow raised. "I almost died."
"Okay, now you're being dramatic."
She gave me a look but couldn't hide the twitch at the corner of her mouth. I patted the bed beside me.
"You want to buy the place?" I asked, shifting gears. "Since we're leaving the day after tomorrow, we might as well talk about it."
Margot walked over, still holding her hairbrush, and collapsed next to me with a sigh. "Maybe. But only if we destroy that creepy shed."
I laughed. "Wow, it really got to you, didn't it?"
She just stared at me, as if the question didn't deserve a reply.
We lay back against the pillows and soon were flipping through our phones, half‑talking about house‑hunting in L.A.
Eventually, I set my phone aside and slid under the covers. "Are you going to read?"
"Yeah, I'll read for a bit," she said, already reaching for the book on the nightstand.
"Don't wake me up too much," I teased, eyes already closing.
"Shut up," she murmured without looking at me.
I smiled to myself, grateful for the stillness. The day had been long but good—just us. Even the hike had been kind of perfect. And at least I didn't end up like Phil; Haley told me he got punched by a kangaroo on his trip.
Australia had been fun aside from a few giant spider sightings. Maybe tomorrow I'd just laze around and do nothing.
Yeah. That sounded good.
I drifted off to the faint rustle of Margot turning a page.
.
.
.
I woke up with a jolt.
"Danny!"
Margot's voice, sharp and panicked, rang through the house like an alarm bell. I blinked, disoriented; the space beside me was empty.
"Mags?" I called, throwing off the sheets and stumbling into the hallway. My feet slapped the cold floorboards as I barreled downstairs, heart in my throat.
On the ground floor I found her: barefoot near the kitchen, red nightdress rumpled, a hallway cricket bat clutched in white‑knuckled hands. Her face was chalk‑pale, eyes wide.
"What happened?" I asked, my voice already hoarse.
Margot swallowed. "I.."
"What happened?" I repeated, approaching slowly.
She didn't answer. Instead, she lifted a trembling hand and pointed toward the kitchen.
I followed her gaze and froze.
A kangaroo lay sprawled on the tiles, motionless. Blood matted its fur, one leg twisted awkwardly beneath its body.
I turned back to Margot. "What the … Is that—was that Archie?"
Tears welled in her eyes.
"What happened?" I asked again, more gently.
She sniffled, fighting for composure. "I heard something downstairs—shuffling, maybe footsteps. I tried to wake you. Then I grabbed the bat. When I saw something move in the dark, I didn't think I just swung."
My stomach lurched. "Oh, God. Is he dead?"
Margot's voice cracked. "Yes, Daniel. He's dead. I…I bashed his head in."
I ran both hands over my face, heart hammering. "Okay…okay. This is bad. Really bad."
"How did he get in?" I muttered, then remembered: I hadn't closed the back door.
Margot slid down the wall, still gripping the bat. "We should call Glenn."
I stared as though she'd suggested calling the cops. "Are you crazy? We just killed their kangaroo, Mags."
"It was an accident."
"Doesn't matter," I snapped, pacing. "Remember what Glenn said? They love that kangaroo. When this gets out, we'll be known as the couple who killed Russell Crowe's kangaroo."
She groaned.
"We'll be kangaroo murderers, Mags…forever."
"It's also kind of illegal to kill one … sometimes," she added weakly.
"Sometimes? What does that even mean?"
"I don't know! I'm not a wildlife officer, Daniel!"
Hands shaking, I dialed Lucy straight to voicemail.
"Of course she's not picking up," I hissed.
Margot's breathing quickened, eyes flicking from me to the doorway. "What are we going to do?" she whispered.
I paced faster, scenarios colliding in my head. Maybe I was catastrophizing, but it sure felt real.
"I need to think," I muttered. "Just…give me a second."
So I paced, trying to find a way out of the mess. The trip had been going so well until Murphy's law hopped in on two legs and proved me wrong.
I stopped pacing.
A jolt of memory hit so hard I nearly tripped over my own feet. "The hole," I said, eyes wide. "Mags…the hole outside."
Margot looked up from the floor, still hugging her knees. "What about it?"
"We can… we can use it."
Her eyes narrowed, then widened. "Oh my God. Yes. That could work."
She stood. "We can drop him in there. They'll think he fell—an accident. That's all it'll look like."
"Exactly," I said, already moving toward the body.
"Grab the head," she ordered, more determined now.
We carried the carcass together, maneuvering through the hallway and out the back door. The first drop of rain landed on my bare shoulder.
"Rain," I muttered, glancing up. "That… might actually help."
By the time we were halfway across the property, drizzle had become a steady downpour. Our feet sloshed through red mud. The wind howled across the scrub, as if judging us. Margot said nothing just clung to Archie's legs, soaked hair plastered to her face.
The hole loomed ahead, half‑covered with a rusted sheet of tin and stray branches. I kicked them aside, revealing the yawning, muddy pit below. Deep enough maybe.
We set the body down, both of us breathing hard.
Margot stared at it. "Oh my God. What have we done?"
"Well," I said, catching my breath, "it was mostly you."
She slugged my arm hard enough to almost send me into the pit. "Shut up."
With a final heave we pushed the body into the darkness. It thudded once, then disappeared.
Silence.
Thunder rolled across the hills as we stood there, rain trickling down our faces. Margot wiped her hands on her soaked nightdress. I pushed wet hair from my eyes and turned to her. "Let's go."
We trudged back to the house, shoulders hunched against the wind. The rain blurred everything.
Inside, the lights flickered while we worked. We scrubbed every surface, mopped the kitchen floor, wiped down the hallway. We rinsed the bat, washed our hands, burned the rag. Any trace of Archie was gone.
When we finished, we collapsed on the couch.
"For some reason," I whispered, "I feel… kind of exhilarated. Is that the right word?"
Margot turned her head, eyes still wide. "We are terrible people."
"You did the killing."
Another punch to my arm.
"Okay, okay," I groaned. "We're both terrible people."
She didn't answer. She just curled closer, and together still half in disbelief we drifted off to sleep, thunder grumbling faintly in the distance.
.
.
.
I had dreams after what happened.
No…nightmares.
I was being led through a tunnel of flashing lights and noise. Paparazzi screamed, cameras exploding with white-hot bursts. A thousand voices crashed into one another, all asking the same question in different words:
"Why did you kill that kangaroo?"
"Did you want to eat it?"
"Was it something sexual?"
The crowd closed in, bodies pressing, microphones shoved in my face. My feet moved, but it felt like I was sinking with every step.
Inside, the courthouse loomed: cold marble, fluorescent lights that hummed too loudly. I stood at the center, and everyone was there. My mother sat in the front row; she looked sad. Lucy. Margot. Nathan. Even Alice…Alice wouldn't look at me.
"My client did not kill the kangaroo," my lawyer declared.
A woman wearing a PETA badge rose for the prosecution.
"He's a monster," she said, pointing straight at me. "He and his girlfriend planned to eat the kangaroo. They would've gotten away with it if not for the witness."
I stood, heart racing, hands shaking. "It was an accident," I said. "We didn't mean to…"
But the cameras cut me off. Flash. Flash. Flash.
I turned…and saw Archie in the back of the courtroom. Alone. Silent. Judging me.
"Why did you do it?" he asked.
I woke with a jolt, heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted out. Sheets tangled around me, gray morning light leaking through the blinds.
The shower water hit my skin warm, steady but I felt cold. Eyes closed, forehead against the tile, I didn't move for a long time.
I couldn't imagine how Margot felt. She was the one who'd done the deed.
Eventually I turned off the water, dried off, dressed without thinking.
Downstairs, I was making coffee when the front door opened and Margot stepped inside, flushed from her run, earbuds hanging around her neck, sweat glistening on her forehead. She was smiling actually smiling like nothing had happened. She moved to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and drank deeply.
I just stared.
The fuck… am I dating a sociopath?
She was standing in the same spot where it happened where she'd done it like it was just another Tuesday.
She noticed me watching. "What's wrong?"
"I've been having nightmares about what happened," I said, voice shaking. "You killed Archie."
Margot shrugged and took another sip. "It happened. Nothing we can do about it."
"It happened? You killed Archie."
"I'm dealing with it," she said, her voice cracking a bit. "In my own way."
"By pretending it never happened?"
"Yes," she said, meeting my eyes. "Yes, that's exactly what I'm going to do." And she walked away.
"The fuck…" I muttered, dropping onto the couch.
The day dragged on. I tried to distract myself with TV static, cooking shows, a cartoon rerun until I stopped on a DC Batman movie. Sure, why not, I thought, and kept watching.
After a while I felt I needed to talk to someone—someone other than Margot—someone who would tell me everything would be all right.
"Lucy," I whispered. "I need to call Lucy. She'll know what to do."
I stepped outside with my phone, heart racing. I scrolled to Lucy's name, hit call, and put the phone to my ear.
She picked up on the second ring, her voice bright and breezy.
"Danny! How's the vacation down under?"
"Luce…" My voice cracked. "Luce, we—we killed… we messed up."
There was a pause. "What?"
"It was Margot. We… I…" I couldn't even finish the sentence.
Lucy's tone changed instantly—sharp, serious. "Okay, okay, Adam…get off the line," she muttered, as if someone else were listening in.
"Alright, I'm here. I understand."
"You do?" I asked.
"You killed a hooker? Oh, fuck. I didn't expect this from you. I knew I'd have to deal with some shit when I became an agent, but not this. Not this from you."
"What? What are you—Luce, I can't hear you, the line's cutting—"
"Okay, okay," she said, suddenly composed, like she was writing down bullet points. "Calm down. Just tell me what happened. How did it happen? How did she die?"
"She… no, it wasn't a she," I said, pacing now. "It was a he. Archie."
There was a beat.
Lucy lowered her voice. "Archie… Oh. I didn't know you were into that." Then, quickly, "No judgment… 'Archie' probably wasn't even his real name, Danny."
"What?" I asked, now even more confused.
"Just…just walk me through it. We'll figure it out, okay?"
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
"You and Margot killed a male escort. It happened—you must be in shock. Just tell me what happened. Oh, and is there blood? Then get your hands on…"
"What? No! No, Luce, Archie's a kangaroo! We didn't kill a guy… Margot accidentally killed a kangaroo, that's who Archie is."
Another long pause.
"A what?" she said flatly.
"A kangaroo, Luce! It came into the house in the middle of the night, and Margot hit it with a cricket bat!"
There was silence. Then—
Lucy broke into full, hysterical laughter. I could hear her nearly drop the phone.
"Oh my God," she gasped between laughs. "You didn't kill a man. Jesus, that feels so good to hear. I thought I was gonna have to help you get rid of a body!"
"No… fuck," I said, dragging a hand through my hair.
I explained everything to Lucy—every ridiculous, horrifying detail: how the kangaroo had gotten into the house, how Margot panicked, how she swung the cricket bat without thinking, how we freaked out and dumped the body in a ditch, staging it to look like it had fallen in on its own. Like it had just… tripped and died.
There was a pause on the line. Then Lucy said, cool and clinical, "You did good. Did you scrub out all the blood?"
"Yeah," I said. "Everything. It's all gone."
"Good," she replied, firm now. "Now do nothing. Just—nothing."
"You sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure. Jesus, Daniel. You really took me for a ride here. I thought you'd killed a person. But no—it was just a kangaroo." Her voice softened. "Just come home soon, okay? We'll put this behind us."
"Okay. Okay," I said, nodding even though she couldn't see me.
She hung up, but I could still hear her laughing faintly as the call ended. "A kangaroo…"
I stared at the phone. "Damn."
Lucy was ready to help me cover up a murder. I really did choose wisely all those years ago.
I went back inside and dropped down on the couch, calmer than before.
"Lucy's right," I muttered. "Just need to get home. Put this behind me."
By evening I was still on that couch. The light outside had mellowed into a soft, golden haze, and I hadn't budged. Maybe Margot had the right idea, I thought: distract yourself—pretend it didn't happen. So I tried.
I opened my notebook and started scribbling anything to get my mind off things: Phase 2 of the DCU.
Superman 2. Batman 3. Wonder Woman 2. Suicide Squad.
My pen stopped.
Wait… didn't Wonder Woman have a pet kangaroo?
I blinked, trying to remember. What was its name? Jumpa?
The room hummed with the low drone of a didgeridoo from the TV—a slow documentary playing on autoplay.
"Danny!"
I grabbed the remote and clicked the TV off just as I heard Margot calling from outside.
The air was cooler now, dusk settling in. Margot stood in the yard, arms crossed, staring toward the ditch where we'd left Archie.
"Someone's there," she said without turning.
I followed her gaze. A man stood near the hole, a rifle slung over his shoulder just standing there, looking down, inspecting.
"Oh, fuck," I whispered. "Who is that?"
Margot didn't move. "Well, he found Archie."
"Why does he have a gun?"
"Must be one of those rangers Glen mentioned."
"Yeah, but… why does he have a gun, Mags?"
She kept staring. I watched the guy a moment longer and made a decision.
"Come on," I said. "Let's go."
"Wait, what?" Margot turned, incredulous. "No. We're staying right here."
"No, listen we go over there. We act shocked. Sad. Like we just stumbled onto it. Share in their grief or something. Trust me, it's better than standing here looking guilty."
Without waiting, I started toward the man. After a second, I heard her footsteps behind me.
As we crossed the dry grass, she leaned in. "How exactly are you going to act shocked?"
"I know how to act shocked."
She grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop. "Show me."
I sighed and gave her my best shocked face—wide eyes, slack jaw, one hand half-raised as if to say, "Oh no!"
She stared. "That is so bad. Like… offensively bad."
"Thanks."
She shook her head. "Okay, you do nothing. I'll handle the acting. You? Just hold me."
"Hold you?"
"Yes. Hold me. Comfort me. You'll understand."
Before I could respond, she was already striding toward the man, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
"Hey," I called as we got closer.
The man looked up, rifle still on his back. The breeze shifted, and the sour smell drifted over—faint but sharp, straight from the ditch. Archie. Poor Archie.
The man gave a polite nod. "Oh, hello. You must be the guests we were told not to disturb."
"Yeah," I said, forcing a smile. "That's us."
Margot stepped forward, her tone light and curious. "What's going on?"
He glanced back at the hole. "Oh…you don't want to see this. Really."
"What is it?" I asked, playing along, though my stomach was already turning.
"Found a roo in the ditch," he said. "Looks like it fell in."
Margot leaned closer, then gasped like she was in a soap opera. She clutched my arm and pressed her face against my shoulder.
Oh, I thought, this is what she meant by "hold me." Right. Got it.
"Yeah, that's a tragedy," I managed, voice flat but trying. "Glen's going to be so upset. That's probably Archie."
"Archie?" the man repeated, frowning. "Oh, shit. Is this the one they keep as a pet?"
I stared at him. "What did you think it was?"
He crouched, squinting into the hole. "No, no… Archie's in a cage—a big one by Glen's place. Glen told me he was going to keep that one penned. This isn't him."
Margot and I exchanged a look. "Wait, what?" we said in perfect unison.
The man straightened, brushing dirt from his pants. "Yeah, this isn't the pet. Archie's tagged. This one isn't."
I stared at the body, still barely visible from where we stood.
"This is going to be a pain," he muttered. "Too much paperwork. We're supposed to do it clean mercy shots to the head, quick and painless. Not this. Looks like it drowned in yesterday's rain."
"Wait—what are you talking about?" I asked, stepping forward. "What do you mean 'do it clean'? Kill who?"
He adjusted the rifle strap on his shoulder. "Name's James. I was hired last month for the culling. Too many roos around here. Council sends guys like me out when the numbers get out of hand—gotta thin the herd."
He smiled, as if he'd just explained how to mow a lawn.
I looked at Margot, who seemed almost… relieved, like a weight had slid off her shoulders.
"Oh," she said, grinning, "so this one was supposed to die?" Her voice was borderline chipper, eyes bright.
James hesitated, clearly put off by her tone. "Yeah, yeah… sad it went like this, though," he said cautiously.
"But it was supposed to die," Margot repeated, practically bouncing, "and it's not Archie." She looked at me as if we'd just won the lottery.
James blinked, clearly weirded out, muttered something about calling it in, and walked away—slowly.
As soon as he was gone, Margot threw her arms around me and kissed me. "We didn't kill Archie," she said, beaming. "It wasn't him."
I stood stiffly in her embrace, glancing over her shoulder. "So… killing kangaroos is just normal here? You told me it was illegal."
"Only when the numbers get too high," she said. "You need a permit and everything—it's all regulated. They run culls all the time." She pulled back, hands still on my shoulders. "God, I'm so relieved."
I raised an eyebrow. "You still killed one."
She shrugged. "Yeah, well… it was going to die anyway. You heard James—he was coming to shoot it." Spinning on her heel, she walked off with a little skip, as if it were a beautiful day and nothing had gone wrong.
I watched her for a moment, then glanced back at the ditch. The kangaroo lay there, unmoving.
With a long, slow exhale, I headed for the house and dropped into one of the rickety chairs on the porch. The sun was setting, bathing everything in that orange-gold glow that makes the world feel calmer than it has any right to be.
From somewhere in my memory, the low drone of a didgeridoo rolled through my head—strange and distant.
"What the fuck," I muttered.
A sharp crack echoed in the distance. A gunshot. I jolted upright.
They'd killed another one.
I slumped back in the chair.
"I need to get the fuck out of this country," I said to no one.
Maybe New Zealand. Yeah. The Shire was there—that would cheer me up. Hobbits and Lord of the Rings. Yeah, definitely New Zealand before heading home.