Let me tell you the story about how the Dead Man got a job at the carwash – I promise to keep it brief. Even after he was fired from the denim factory, the Dead Man would wake up early. He slept in once or twice but those days slipped away, which left him with a guilty feeling because he already wasn’t working. And he realised he missed things, like the dash to the bus stop, the morning bus ride, the times he got a window seat and was able to watch the sun rising. So he started waking early again, showered and dressed, drank the tea that his father had left behind then went out. The fresh morning air made him feel better. Walked to nowhere in particular, often winding his way around to the park by mid morning, thinking about finding a job but doing little about it. On one of these mornings, he ran into an old school friend. They walked and talked in the dawn light and, without even realising it, this friend had led the Dead Man to the river. They walked along the river to a nearby street where his friend casually opened up a car and removed the battery. For a while, every morning for a few weeks, the Dead Man and his friend stole batteries from dumped cars then went back to the apartment where his friend lived – to smoke and listen to music and play fight. Sometimes they had three or even four batteries, some days none. Sold them for cash to a man who fixed radios and old computers from an alleyway garage. It was easy and quick, the workday often over before the sun had risen. But then the Dead Man bought a few things with the money he’d made, a jacket and a pair of leather shoes, and was left with almost nothing. All that work – this couldn’t go on. Soon after this, they were lifting a battery from a car when the Dead Man spotted someone on a balcony, watching them and smoking a cigarette. He told his friend to hurry because they were being watched. The moment he said this, his friend turned around and ran away. The Dead Man stood there, unsure what to do, and looked up at the smoker on the balcony.

—Wait there, the man said down to him.

While the Dead Man waited, he realised what had not occurred to him before: there was nothing about the car that indicated it had been dumped. He was telling his friend a story and had been distracted, casually watching for danger – he had barely even looked at the car.

The man was still smoking when he came out of the building.

—This is my car, he said, and threw away the cigarette.

—I didn’t know, said the Dead Man.

—I need to drive to work.

—I didn’t know, said the Dead Man.

The man looked at the Dead Man then checked under the bonnet. He circled the car, inspecting it, rubbing at spots with his thumb. He told the Dead Man to get in, told him he needed people. That is how he got the job at the carwash.

…

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