We drive to Flinders Chase, passing dead kangaroo after dead possum after dead unidentified. I’ve never been anywhere with as much roadkill as here, and I say this having grown up in a country that consistently tops rankings for its bad drivers. I focus my eyes upwards, on the gumtrees and the stretches of sheep-peppered land.
It’s early and coffee is still seeping into our veins, so the mood in the car is sleepy, propelled forward by Jack Johnson and the impetus of a new adventure. We roll along for a while, pulling up to the sign that announces Flinders Chase National Park. Dad swivels in the passenger seat to smile at me. “Sweetie, who is Flinders Chase’s brother?”
I can smell a dad joke coming on and smile. “He had a brother?”
He grins. “Chevy.”