1.
The Dead Man waits in the middle of the empty parking lot, next to a lamppost, engine still running. Like he may need to make a quick getaway. He has parked the car perfectly between the parallel white stripes. Only now does it occur to him that if the kid buys the car like they discussed on the call, he will have a hard time getting home from here: carpark of a club that is still closed—it’s too early in the day. Twin palm trees at the entrance, a neon sign on the wall not yet lit. Ten minutes pass when the Dead Man sees, in the rear-view mirror, someone on a bicycle, riding towards him.

2.
The bus is filled with people going to work or school. The Dead Man sits up back with a bundle of money in his pocket. He grips it tightly, not letting go for anything. The kid paid cash, a rubber band around it, wrapped inside a catalogue of electronic goods. The Dead Man threw the catalogue away at the first opportunity, but the wad is big, lots of smaller denominations, took a minute or two to count and recount, and he wished he’d kept it. For extra security.

3.
His mother is at the stove, standing bored over a pot. The Dead Man gives her a third of the amount he was paid for the car and kisses her on the cheek.

—For what?

—I sold the car.

She clicks her tongue and turns her attention back to the pot.

In his bedroom, he puts the pile of money in a dented biscuit tin with coins and tarnished jewellery. Presses the lid down then puts the tin on his bedside table. It is a good feeling.

4.
At dinner, his father waits until they are all seated then makes an announcement.

—He sold the car. Has it for six weeks and decides I don’t want it, no need, no thank you.

—I made a profit.

His sister chuckles.

—Six weeks was enough for him to make up his mind.

The Dead Man puts his cutlery down and looks at his mother, money in her pocket now, wanting some support. His father associates a car with manliness, with freedom and independence. He thought of it as the family’s car.

—How are you getting to work?

—Like before.

—How?

—Friends when we share shifts. Bus when we don’t. I made a good profit on the car.

His father raises his glass of water in a sarcastic toast. His sister holds a glass up too

—He bought it for peanuts, sold it for hazelnuts.

Says it under his breath. Quiet for a moment, then starts again.

—You could have quit that job and been hired as a driver.

—I don’t want to be a driver.

—A courier, then. Sometimes you don’t think, boy.

5.
The Dead Man dreams about a dog chasing a pig, or a pig chasing a dog—by morning, he will not remember which.

…

Tristan Foster is a writer from Sydney, Australia. He is the author of two books, the short story collection Letter to the Author of the Letter to the Father and 926 Years with Kyle Coma-Thompson. Midnight Grotesques, with Michelle Lynn Dyrness, is forthcoming from Sublunary Editions.