Fred’s front yard was plain yellowed grass. It was mowed, but there were tufts of weeds growing at the base of a rusty wire fence. The windows had dirty white curtains, and there was nothing on the wooden, dark green veranda but a neat stack of firewood.
The boys made their way up a cracked, concrete driveway. They could see that Fred was at work in his garage, as the door was wide open.
“Hello?” Tristram called politely, before stepping inside.
The old man turned from his scarred wooden work bench with a harsh, suspicious gaze. Then a happy recognition softened his face.
“Oh g’day!” The elder exclaimed cheerfully. “Bin a long time since I seen you, lad. Who’s dis wid ya?”
Tristram smiled warmly. “Don’t you remember? This is Pyran. Last time you saw him was up in the high country.”
“
