The Hands by Stephen Orr

Yes, Doctor, number thirteen … a shooting pain that comes and goes.
    Trevor waited and eventually spoke to a registered nurse. He told her about his aunt and explained her dreams and how she always needed the toilet.
    â€˜Does it burn when she pees?’ she asked.
    â€˜Does it burn when you pee?’ he called to Fay.
    Fay looked at her brother. ‘What’s he saying?’
    â€˜Does it burn when you pee?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Yes,’ Trevor told the nurse, who explained that it was probably a urinary tract infection.
    â€˜A urinary tract infection,’ Trevor said aloud, so they’d all know. ‘Right … how do we deal with that?’ He listened as she took a few minutes to move papers and fiddle with her computer. ‘She’s not allergic to penicillin?’
    Trevor asked Fay, who asked Murray, who asked her again, before she said, ‘No.’
    Trevor told the nurse.
    â€˜Good. Trimethoprim, three times a day, for … seven days should do it. If she’s not better after two or three days, call back.’
    Trevor found a pad and pen and asked, ‘What number’s that?’
    â€˜Sixty-two.’
    â€˜Sixty-two, three times a day, for seven days?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Okay, thanks.’ He hung up.
    Carelyn already had the medical kit out. She was sorting the ointments, dressings and plastic vials full of dozens of types of pills; checking the bold numerals designed to make sure no one gave the wrong medication. She found the pills: 62. ‘Right.’ After checking the name with Trevor she closed the box, relocked it and put it back in the cupboard. Went to the kitchen, filled another glass of water and sat beside Fay. ‘The nurse thinks you have a urinary tract infection.’
    Fay just shrugged. ‘How did I get that?’
    â€˜You just get it. Here, take this.’ She handed her the first of the yellow pills. Fay placed it in her mouth and Carelyn helped her with the water.
    â€˜Yes, I’m feeling better already.’
    â€˜You will.’
    And Trevor said, ‘It’s just as well the storm’s gone, Fay, cos that probably caused it.’ He looked at his father.
    â€˜What?’ Murray said.
    â€˜Nothing.’
    They pumped diesel from a drum to the ute. Harry worked for twenty minutes, until fuel spilled from the tank. ‘Dad,’ he called, and Trevor came out with a small esky full of food.
    â€˜Thanks, old boy,’ he said, ruffling his son’s hair, and Harry asked, ‘Why can’t I come?’
    â€˜You need your beauty sleep.’
    â€˜Please?’
    â€˜No.’ He climbed in behind the wheel. ‘Your mother needs your help.’
    Harry retreated, convinced, but not happy. What would be more fun? Bush-bashing or wiping dishes? Cleaning out troughs or mopping piss from the toilet floor?
    Trevor drove north. The track was all sand but he knew if he stayed on the ridges he wouldn’t get bogged. Bore number one, an hour and a half from home, the water in the trough warm and soupy but the pump still working. He unscrewed the bung and cleaned the trough before refilling it. Kept going: numbers two and three, the same story. Now he was nearly three hours from home.
    He took out his swag, unrolled it and sat eating chicken and drinking warm Coke. Sand was blowing over from a dry turkey nest dam. As he napped, the desert, his farm, was still and silent. It’d had enough of blowing. He was woken by kangaroos coming close then jumping off into a distance of small, nocturnal spirits. He sat up and ate biscuits and drank the rest of his Coke; then shook out his swag and rolled it up.
    He drove towards number four. Passing a big group of steers, his heart sank when he saw ribs and hips and loose skin. Although he saw them as animals (with fear, and pain, reflected in their big brown eyes) they were also meat, living kilograms, dollars and cents per unit, Dry