Read an extract from Juice by Tim Winton

So I drive until first light and only stop when the plain turns black and there’s nothing between us and the horizon but clinkers and ash.

I pull up. Drop the sidescreen. The southern air is mercifully still this morning, and that’s the only stroke of luck we’ve had in days. I know what wind does to an old fireground. In a gale, the ash can fill your lungs in minutes. I’ve seen comrades drowning on their feet. Clambered over the windrows of their bodies.

I wrap the scarf over my nose and mouth. Hang the glasses from my neck. Crack the door. And step down. Testing the surface as gently as I can. Ankle-deep. To the shins at worst. No sound out here but the whine of our rig’s motors.

Stay there, I call.

I know she’s awake, but the child, slumped in the corner of the cab, does not move. I walk back gingerly to check the trailer. Everything is still cinched down as it should be – the maker, the water, pods and implements – although the days of hard running have left my greens in disarray. The leafier edibles are windburnt, but overall the losses seem manageable. I tap the reservoir to fill my flask. Then, with the glasses, I scan the western approaches. No plumes, no movement. We’re clear.

I try to swipe the dust from the films and panels, but it’s pointless. In a minute or so every generating surface will be furred with ash again. I just need the turbines to trickle in enough juice to get us across.

Back at the cab, I thump my boot heels on the step and climb in. She hasn’t moved, and why that should be both a relief and vexation is beyond me.

We’re okay, I tell her. We’ll make this.

She gazes out across the scorched land.

This place, I say. It was all trees once. I flew across it. When I was young.

She blinks, inscrutable.

It went on and on. Trees beneath us for hours. The smell – you just wanted to eat the air.

She maintains her silence.

Have you flown?

Nothing.

I know you’ve been at sea. Just wondered if you’d been up in a stat.

She shifts and tilts her head against the sidescreen.

It’s really something.

She offers no sign of interest. Sits back, leaves a smear of sun paste on the glass.

But just once, I say, I would’ve liked to fly for the sake of it, not because I was on my way to somewhere horrible.

The sun appears. Molten. Slumped at the edges. Liquifying before us like a burning blimp. Until it rises. Breaks free of all comparisons to become its unmistakable self. Something reassuring. And terrible.

I talk too much, I declare. And you? You never say a word. Once upon a time I never said enough. So I was told.

She gives me nothing.

I know you hear me. You follow my language.

She rubs at the glass and manages to spread more grease than she removes.

Listen, I say. Those men back there, we lost them. No one’s coming for us. This morning we need to get across this ash. It won’t be nice. But on the other side there’ll be fresh country. We’ll move and camp the way we did before. Okay? Until we find ourselves a situation. There’ll be somewhere. We’ll be alright.

The child cranks her head further away. When I take my scarf and tear a long hank from it, she turns back at the sound. I pull the rest of the fabric across my nose and mouth and bind it around the skirts of my hat. And although she flinches, she does not resist when I do the same for her. There’s still dried blood on her brow where she beat herself against the dash. Her pale blue eyes seem more luminous above the mask.

There, I say. Cuts the stink a bit anyway. One day we’ll scrub this cab out. And you won’t just be watching, believe me. So. You set? There’s water here. We’ll eat on the other side.

I lift the sidescreen and set the rig into motion. Trundling just fast enough to make way, but slow enough to avoid stirring up a blizzard of ash.

On and on we go, hour after hour, over country as black as the night sky, across a fallen heaven starred with eruptions of white ash and smears of milky soot.

The vehicle staggers and wallows but keeps on until I’m down to reserve power. And then, as the midday sun drills in through the murk, I see new colours – tan, silver, khaki, bone – and the surge of relief that goes through me is almost deranging.

At the first solid ground I let the child out to privy. She seems energized by the freedom. Though when she’s done, she baulks at being hustled back into the rig so soon. I don’t manhandle her. But I do corral her. And I speak to her sharply. Because I’m tired. And still useless at this. And I really need to put some distance between us and that fireground. So when we finally get moving, the mood in the cab is low, and I’m sorry for it, but soon I have reason to be glad because when the batts finally give out, a hard gust comes in from the south, and the whole rig shakes on its axles.

I climb down stiffly. The kid gets out. I point to the dirty pillars rising into the sky in the distance behind us.

Look, I say. We could have been in the middle of that. But we’re out and upwind, see? That’s not just a lucky escape. That’s us being smart.

I crank out the shade. Set the array.

She watches the ash clouds twist northward. As the wind stiffens, they boil against one another. Then she follows me to the trailer. Watches as I dole out some mash. Accepts the dixy and the spoon. On her haunches, with her back to the wind, she swats away the skirts of her hat and eats. Avidly.

We can’t just be lucky, I say. You and me, we have to stay sharp.

She’s already licking her mess tin clean. I take it from her, give her mine, and while she eats I unlash my swag and roll it out beside the vehicle. Then I take down the bedroll I’ve improvised for her. Unfurl it next to mine. Not so close to make her worry, but near enough to keep an eye on her.

We’re all out of push, I say. Machine and creatures alike. So let’s sleep.

She shovels the last of the mash into her mouth, licks my dixy clean and the spoon also. Gets up, sets both back on the trailer and returns to sit, cross-legged, on her swag. She gazes east, the tail of her hat stirred by the wind.

Suit yourself, I say.

And then I’m gone. Out.

——-

Sometime in the afternoon I wake to a faint keening. And for a moment I think I’m home. With an ailing hen downstairs. The whole flock at risk of contagion. Catastrophe in my compound. And I know I should get up, go straight to the growhouse, but when I open my eyes there’s just the awning shimmying in the wind above me and I’m here, on the dirt, so far south from home. And it’s the kid. Her face smeared with tears. Weeping. For the woman, I imagine, and God knows how much else besides. I reach for her, but she cringes away, so I leave her be and yield, once more, to sleep.

When I wake again the shadows of the vehicle and its trailer are long as safety ropes. The waif kips on. I clamber up, sore and creaky, to get us underway again.

© Tim Winton

This is an extract from Juice by Tim Winton (Picador), the February 2026 read for the New Scientist Book Club. You can buy a copy here, and sign up to read along with us here