Buddha’s thundering rig trails a cloud of orange as it pushes its way towards a low sun. Inside the cabin, Mia holds the rear-view mirror in one hand and an eye-shadow brush in the other, applying heavy layers: her shadowed eyes, spray-tanned face and shaved head reminding her of experiments she’d tried as a teenager.
‘Lookin’ like a bunny to me,’ Buddha says, staring over his sunglasses at her and laughing. ‘I’ll have some jealous mates out there.’
‘You think I’ve overdone it?’ she asks, re-brushing a smudged corner.
‘Maybe that top you got on. What do ya call it?’
‘A tank top.’
‘s**t!’ Buddha yells, pulling on the steering: his whole attention on the road where a washout has cut halfway across. Holding the wheel with both hands, he guides the truck around it. ‘That “tank” thing,’
