1

What with the heat and a cramping back, John lets his guard down and tells his father that he doesn't know what his path in life is. It’s an unseasonably warm Autumn Saturday afternoon and the two are hunkered down by the side of the house, over the driveway pavers for their weekly weeding session. John's father does not look up from his milk thistle or otherwise respond, though after a couple of soupy moments he hauls himself up off his haunches and beckons to his son. 

Come with me, he grunts like a farmer.

2

John sneaks a second then drags himself upright. The cells in his stomach begin to wobble as he follows his father, who is already striding down toward the rear of the backyard, past the cactus garden inspired by the temple of Montezuma, replete even with miniature bayonets and red clay pigment, past the pond, itself over-garnished with lilies concave to the sky, directing the blips of the spawning green frogs upward, replying back through time and space to the quips of booting-up Y2K-era modems past, before winding past the mighty walnut tree his father affectionately calls Young Prince Phillip, the reason for which he has never shared though only for the reason he has never actually been asked, which stands surrounded at its rugged, wide base by a small troupe of armed garden gnomes in a tight, outward-facing ring formation (meaning one of which always has a close eye on John's uncovered right ankle as it sweeps past the fallen amber leaves), and finally up to the boundary of their kingdom, firmly designated by a seven-foot timber paling fence.

3

What are we doing, Dad? asks John as they come to a halt. 

It's time I showed you something, his father replies, wiping the dirt off his right index finger with spit and denim before resting it motionless on one of the fence palings. John scratches at his ankle and makes brief eye contact with a gnome. 

Suddenly the paling starts flashing bright neon orange and whining like a luxury European car alarm. John nearly steps back onto an old golf ball, its divots packed with dirt like tiny repaired potholes. His father does not show surprise at the failure of the fingerprint recognition system, he simply sighs (he was once a high school relief teacher), produces a small hatchet from god-knows-where-but-probably-the-back-of-his-belt and starts hacking at the fence with all the vigour of a ravenous dingo.  

A man is possessed, splinters fly, and now a father and son sized hole exists in the fence. John's father is already crouching to crawl through, turning to his son and beckoning him, again, to follow. John's eyes are wide as pints. But what about the fence? he yells, his father already through the gap. 

Generational silence. 

Don't worry, comes back a yell from the other side, the gnomes will fix it. 

4

John ducks through the hole before raising his face to a new sky. The light is different on this side. Everything is a little more golden, seen as if through a rich kid’s Ray Bans. The full high clouds are puffy sepia pillows. Don't look up too long, his father says, there’s no ozone layer.

Have there been fires here?

Oh, no more than usual, his father replies.

5

They walk on a subtle path, winding gently down through a dense network of vines and gums, mainly, even the odd staghorn - a particularly large one has a small pink gumboot sticking out of it. 

John does not ask.

A strange bird squawks to the tune of a Western Sydney taxi company jingle. 

6

John taps his father on the shoulder and points to a surprisingly located patch of collard. It appears to have flourished in the shape of a human, as if within the chalk outline of a body. 

Even if you asked, I wouldn’t tell you, mate.

John is beginning to realise that there could be more to his father than consumption of dark chocolate and Scottish crime serials. 

7

On they walk. That hum is the drones, by the way, his father states out of the blue. 

John now realises that the murder of crows he thought he glimpsed to the east are in fact moving rather unnaturally. Really? Are they filming us? 

Well, yeah, but no-one's there to watch the feed. They're strays now, ownerless since the change. 

Do they just fall out of the sky when they run out of battery? 

Nah, they'll never run out of battery, they're solar powered. Stuck up there. Your mother calls them Dutton's Sheepdogs. 

Mum's been here? 

Of course.

8

Their meandering culminates as the path opens into a lush, mossy clearing past an especially tall Blue Gum whose roots threaten to crush the head of a not-insignificantly-sized boulder. At the end of the clearing stands a formidable two storey sandstone mansion. It is magnificent like the legacy of Ita Buttrose and the Battle of Ultimo, and it rears out of the tight landscape like a crystalline temple of honey.

Wow, Dad, John gasps, astounded utterly by the regal home. In one complete second, he imagines multiple existences here: a deep sleep here alone, a drink here with his friends, an enlightening read here by a north-facing window on a red daybed, a bout of lovemaking here with Amu from Physics on a spotted deer rug. He seems to have potentially located his future. 

Now, son, just let it narrow, narrow, narrow.