As dawn breaks, I drive relentlessly, halting only when the plains turn black, with nothing but clinker and ash stretching to the horizon.

I stop, lower the side screen, and breathe in the calm southerly air—a fleeting stroke of luck in recent days. I know firsthand the danger wind poses to old fireplaces. In strong gusts, ash can suffocate in moments, and I’ve watched comrades succumb.

Wrap your scarf around your mouth and nose. Hang your glasses around your neck. Break the door. Please step out. Test the surface gently—ankle deep, or worse, to the shins. Silence looms, except for the hum of the rig’s motor.

Stay there; I’m calling.

I know she’s awake, but the child remains slumped in the cab, unmoving. I cautiously check the trailer—everything is secure: manufacturer, water, pods, equipment—but my greens lie disheveled from long, hard days. Some leaves have been windburned, but the overall damage appears manageable. I tap the reservoir to fill the flask, then don my glasses and scan the western approach—clear, with no smoke or movement.

I attempt to wipe the dust off the panels, but it’s futile; they’ll be covered with ash again within minutes. The turbine must release enough fluid to cross.

Back in the cab, I slam my boot heel on the step and climb in. She still doesn’t move. I can’t quite decide if this is a relief or an annoyance.

We’re okay, I reassure her. I’ll handle this.

She gazes out at the scorched earth.

This land, I reminisce, was once all woods. I flew over it when I was younger.

She blinks, her expression perplexed.

Trees stretched endlessly beneath us. The air was ripe, almost tangible.

She stays silent.

Have you ever flown?

No response.

I know your experiences at sea. I wondered if my status changed.

She shifts, resting her head against the side screen.

That’s quite something.

No sign of interest from her. After sitting, sun stains remain on the glass.

Yet, for once, I wish my flight had been for the sake of adventure, not heading to a dangerous place.

The sun rises, molten, tilting before us like a soaring airship before it vanishes. Break free from all comparisons and become your true self. A comforting yet terrifying thought.

I talk excessively, I admit. You too? You never utter a word. For once, I feel I’ve said too little.

She offers nothing in response.

I know you hear me—you’re following my words.

She scrapes the glass, spreading more grease than she removes.

Listen, I say. Those we lost—none will come for us. We must cross through these ashes. It’s crucial. There’s a fresh land waiting for us on the other side. We’ll move and set camp, understood? I hope it’s out there. It’ll be fine.

The child shifts away, and I tear a piece from my scarf, catching her attention. Pull the remaining fabric over your face and wrap it around your hat’s brim. She flinches but doesn’t resist. Dried blood from her forehead incident glints in her pale blue eyes, which appear even brighter now.

So, I say, the smell might lessen a bit. I’ll clean this rig later. You’re not merely looking, trust me. So, are you ready? Water’s here. We’ll eat on the other side.

Lift the side screen and move the rig. Walk swiftly to get through, but slowly enough to avoid an ash blizzard.

For hours, we cross a land as dark as the night, over fallen heavens adorned with jets of ash and milky soot.

The vehicle jolts but perseveres until my energy wanes. As midday sunlight pierces through, I witness colors emerge—tans, silvers, khakis, and bone hues—and the relief I feel is almost overwhelming.

Upon touching solid ground, I let the child out into the secret space. She appears invigorated by newfound freedom, yet hesitates to return to the rig. I won’t pamper her, but I must guide her firmly. My fatigue is palpable, and we need distance from that fireplace. When we finally start moving again, the atmosphere in the cab dims, disappointing—but soon we have reason to celebrate. As the bat finally flexes its power, a mighty gust from the south shakes the entire rig.

I will descend steadily. The child goes outside. I point to a dirty column rising into the sky in the distance behind us.

Look, I say. We could have been enveloped. But we are positioned upwind, right? It’s not mere luck. That’s our cleverness.

I close the shade and set the array.

She observes the ash cloud swirling north. As winds intensify, they intertwine. She follows me to the trailer, where I distribute the mash—she accepts Dixie and Spoon. With her back turned from the wind, she devours her meal eagerly.

Luck alone won’t suffice, I explain. You and I must remain composed.

She’s already licking the dirty container clean. I take it, hand her mine, and while she eats, I pull out the swag and roll it to the car’s side. Then, I lower the makeshift nightgown I crafted for her. Spread it beside me—close enough to keep watch, but not too close for comfort.

We’re all exhausted. Machines and living beings alike. Let’s sleep.

She finishes the last of her mash, licking my clean spoon as well. I rise, stow them in the trailer, then settle cross-legged on my swag again. She gazes east, her hat’s tail swaying in the breeze.

Be yourself, I urge.

And then I step outside.

——-

Later in the afternoon, I awaken to a slight ache. For a moment, I mistake it for home. A sick chicken downstairs threatens the whole flock. A disaster at my property. I know I should rise and head to the grow house, but as I open my eyes, the swaying shade above me grounds me to the dirt, far from my home. The child’s tear-stained face reminds me I’m not alone. I yearn to reach out, but she recoils. I leave her be and drift back to sleep.

When I wake again, shadows of the car and trailer stretch long, like lifelines. The rig stirs awake. I gingerly climb out, feeling sore and stiff, and attempt to resume our journey.

© Tim Winton

This is an excerpt from Juice by Tim Winton (Picador), part of the New Scientist Book Club’s February 2026 reading. You can purchase a copy here. Sign up to join the reading community here.