Checkout Time

“Mum said we were just passing through—but sometimes it feels like the place passes through you instead.”

I woke up to sunlight poking through a gap in the curtains like someone was aiming a torch straight at my face.

It wasn’t the nice kind of morning light—the golden kind that sneaks in gently and lets you stretch into the day. This was the bright, overconfident kind, sharp and white like a camera flash you didn’t agree to, slicing across the room in a narrow beam that hit my eyelids with pinpoint precision. My face crinkled up automatically, eyes scrunching shut even before I’d properly woken. I turned my head and felt the unpleasant pull of dried drool anchoring my cheek to the pillow. When I peeled it away, the fabric left a warm, itchy imprint like a temporary tattoo. My mouth tasted like old metal and dreams—stale air thick with sleep and that faint plasticky flavour motel rooms always seemed to have, no matter how clean they pretended to be.

I rolled over, groggy and tangled in the motel blanket, which had twisted itself around me like a stubborn vine. The fabric scratched at my skin with every movement, full of static and that strange heaviness it seemed to gain overnight, as if it had absorbed all our fear while we slept.

The air in the room had that coldness that belonged to real winter—not just chilly, but sharp, like it wanted to carve lines into your skin. My breath puffed out in little clouds that faded before I could admire them properly. The heater was silent now, dead and cold under the window, and the room had given up resisting the outside. The cold had moved in completely, settling into the corners and slipping under the door like an unwelcome guest.

Mack was already up.

He stood by the little table in the corner, bending over one foot as he tied his laces with fast, jerky movements. He’d thrown on his second jumper—the grey one with the hole near the hem—and his jeans from yesterday, still dusty at the knees. His hair looked like it had lost a battle with the pillow, a defiant storm of tufts pointing in all directions, and there was a crease on one cheek, a deep line from the blanket that hadn’t quite faded yet. He didn’t look at me, but his posture spoke volumes—shoulders high, jaw set, movements sharp. Something had already annoyed him, maybe the cold, or the air, or the way things felt the same as yesterday when we were all hoping they wouldn’t.

The room smelled worse in the morning. The clean-up scent—last night’s blast of chemical eucalyptus—had worn off during the night, leaving behind the truth: sour air, damp carpet, something vaguely fungal wafting from the bathroom tiles. The kind of smell that didn’t hit you straight away but hung at the back of your throat, making you want to swallow more often than necessary.

I sat up slowly, limbs reluctant to cooperate. My legs complained as I unfolded them, stiff from sleeping curled in a tight ball. The mattress had left an imprint on my calf, like the design had tried to etch itself onto my skin overnight. My eyes felt heavy, gritty at the edges, like someone had dusted the inside of my eyelids with salt. I rubbed them with both fists, then looked around.

Ribbons was on the floor.

She’d fallen sometime during the night, lying on her front with her arms flung out like she’d fainted mid-run. I scooped her up gently and brushed her off, smoothing her ears and giving her a quick cuddle. She still smelled a little like home—faint washing powder and old warmth—like she’d kept a part of our real life tucked inside her seams.

Then I noticed something else.

The front door was open.

Not wide—but ajar. Just enough for the chill to have crept in during the early hours, pooling near the floor like water seeping through a crack. A line of white light stretched across the stained carpet, brighter and more urgent than it should have been. A door like that didn’t open itself.

My stomach dipped.

Not in a panicked, screaming sort of way. Just a quiet drop, like the first second of a rollercoaster. That moment where your body realises something is wrong before your mind catches up.

Cold air blew in, sharp and dry, carrying with it the scent of the outback morning.

It smelled like frozen grass and corrugated iron left too long in the sun. Like dew on red dirt—brief, fleeting, already beginning to vanish into the warming ground. There was a faint tang of engine oil, and underneath that, the unmistakable aroma of rust—the scent of things that had endured too many winters and too few repairs. The kind of smell that clung to old sheds and utes and places people forgot but the weather didn’t.

From outside came the sound of Mum’s voice.

Not angry. Not loud. Just… constant. Fast and clipped, like she was ticking through an invisible list, her words running together in a low murmur only occasionally interrupted by sighs. There was a clunk as the car boot slammed shut—firm and final—then the squeal of it opening again straight after. Things being rearranged. Boxes shifting. The rattling zip of a duffel bag. That metallic scrape I recognised from every road trip we’d ever taken: the jerry can sliding against the boot lining, half-full and stubborn. A backup plan, always.

The engine wasn’t on yet, but it didn’t matter. The ritual had already begun. That quiet, unmistakable ballet of a departure. It was as familiar now as the smell of toast or the chime of a school bell. I didn’t need to hear the ignition to know we were going soon.

Mack looked up from where he sat on the edge of his bed, tying the second shoe he’d taken his time about. His eyes met mine.

They looked older than they had yesterday. Not in a wrinkly way—just dulled somehow. Hazel that used to sparkle when he was about to say something annoying or clever now looked washed out, like tea left to go cold.

“She’s packing already,” he said. His voice was quiet, but not soft. Not tender. Just… thin.

“Are we going soon?” I asked, yawning so wide it made my jaw pop.

“Looks like it.”

I pulled my jumper over my pyjamas, the wool scratchy against my skin. It smelled faintly of the motel room now, and yesterday's sweat, and something sour from being stuffed in a bag too long. The sleeves were cold where they touched the insides of my wrists. I shuffled to the edge of the bed, my toes recoiling from the rough carpet, stiff with years of footsteps and never enough cleaning.

Outside the window, Mum’s shadow passed across the gravel in flickering slashes, the early light distorting her figure into long, angular shapes. The sun had cleared the horizon now, casting the car park in soft gold. The dust suspended in the air lit up like glitter caught in a snow globe. Tiny golden flecks spinning, rising, falling. Like stars pretending to be dirt. Or maybe the other way around.

“Come on,” Mum called, the cheer in her voice brittle at the edges. “Let’s get a move on. It’s a long drive today.”

It was her ‘assembly voice’. The one she used for dance classes and parent–teacher meetings. Too bright. Too bouncy. Too fake. Like she was auditioning for the part of someone in control. But we knew better. We always knew when the pitch was wrong, when the smile didn’t quite reach the eyes. She wasn’t fooling anyone, not even herself.

Mack rolled his eyes—not dramatically, just enough that I caught it—and grabbed his backpack. He slung it over his shoulder in one quick, easy movement like he’d done it a hundred times before. Because he had.

I scooped up Ribbons from the foot of the bed where she’d been left behind in the scramble of waking. Tucked her under my arm like a football and made my way to the bathroom to brush my teeth. The air in there was colder somehow, and the light harsher, buzzing faintly with that flicker-flutter glow of fluorescent tubes.

The tap coughed before water came out, then gurgled as it ran—first brown, then clear. The water tasted like old coins and boiled cabbage. Like metal and something faintly rotten. I drank anyway. Brushed quickly. The bristles felt too hard on my gums, scraping away sleep and maybe something else I hadn’t known I was holding onto.

The mirror was cracked in one corner, a spiderweb of fractures surrounding a peeling smiley-face sticker. The top half had come away, so now the cartoon grin slumped to one side like it had given up halfway through pretending to be happy.

The light made my skin look greenish. Sick. The shadows under my eyes were darker than they should have been for someone my age, like bruises that had forgotten what caused them.

I rinsed the toothbrush and looked at myself properly for the first time that morning.

And didn’t quite recognise the girl looking back.

When we came outside, the sun was fully up, but the air still had a bite to it that nipped at every bit of skin not hidden beneath fabric.

I zipped my jumper up to my chin and tucked my hands into the sleeves, wishing—not for the first time—that I'd brought a scarf. The frost crunched under my shoes with each step, delicate patterns dissolving into footprints behind me, like evidence we’d been there, if only for a moment. I imagined the sun chasing after us, warming the gravel just enough to erase the marks entirely.

Mum was by the car, shoving the last of the bedding into a black bag, her movements rushed and jagged, like she was trying to beat a clock only she could see. Her ponytail had shifted off-centre during the night and now hung crooked over her shoulder, strands escaping in soft fronds that caught the morning light. She looked pale and wind-chapped, her lips dry and bare—no lipstick, no make-up, no mask today.

The boot slammed shut with more force than it needed, and she rubbed her arms as if to shake off the cold—or something else. Her breath came out in visible bursts, curling and vanishing into the air like secrets trying to escape.

“No one's up,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if I meant it as a question or an observation.

All the motel doors were closed tight, their numbers just faint gold smudges in the morning light. Curtains drawn. No lights on. The floral fabric hanging limp and unmoved behind double-glazed windows that seemed to pretend we didn't exist. No coughs, no footsteps. No signs of life at all.

The sign above the office buzzed behind us, the "C" flickering its last few gasps of function—ON, OFF, ON, OFF—until it gave up and disappeared again into nothing. The rest of the letters glowed in that unsettling, faintly pinkish red that made even good words feel sinister.

Mum muttered something under her breath. I caught the word “go,” but the rest was lost in the air. Could have been, “Let’s go,” or “Can’t wait to get out of here,” or even, “God, please not again.” Whatever it was, her posture said the rest for her. Tense. Braced. Her gaze flicking along the row of rooms as though expecting someone—or something—to emerge.

We trailed her to the office, our breath puffing out ahead of us in little clouds that drifted briefly before vanishing. Mack walked slightly behind, his backpack bumping against his side. The gravel crackled beneath our shoes, each step loud in the hush.

The bell above the office door jingled with a half-hearted metallic rattle, like it, too, was tired of this place.

And behind the desk… someone new.

Gone was the woman with the ash-grey plait and eyes that looked through you. In her place sat a younger man, early twenties maybe, hunched over a wheezing PC that blinked in green text like it belonged in a museum. He looked like he'd been dragged into existence an hour ago by the sound of his alarm and regretted every second since.

His shirt was rumpled, pale blue with a spreading stain over the stomach that might have been coffee or something worse. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of one hand while the other clutched a takeaway cup, Styrofoam peeling slightly at the seam. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them puffy and pink as if sleep had been optional and poorly attended.

Mum didn’t offer a greeting. Just gave her name and dropped the key on the counter.

He didn’t ask how our stay had been.

Didn’t make small talk.

Just tapped a few keys with deliberate slowness, like he had to convince himself each one mattered. The keyboard clacked in sharp little bursts. A printer groaned to life, spitting out a form that curled at the edges almost immediately. He scrawled something on it, the biro juddering mid-stroke, then shoved it toward Mum without looking up.

She signed her name with quick, tight strokes. Her hand trembled. Just a little. Just for a moment. I saw it. Mack didn’t react, but I saw his head tilt slightly—as if he’d caught it too.

“There we go,” the man said flatly, like a machine reading a script. No smile. No goodbye. Just those three words, spoken without conviction, like he’d finished a shift rather than a transaction.

Mum gave a tight nod and turned before he could say anything else—not that he was going to. She didn’t take the form. Didn’t wait. Just said, “Come on,” in that same clipped, exhausted voice and stepped through the door before the bell could decide if it wanted to ring again.

It did anyway.

Too loudly this time.

Like it wanted to protest the silence we were leaving behind.

We followed, falling into step behind her like ducklings trailing a mother duck—a formation we’d perfected without ever agreeing on it, shaped by need more than instinct. Mum led, always a few steps ahead, her shoulders squared against the world. Mack walked just behind, his backpack slung over one shoulder and his hands stuffed into his pockets. I brought up the rear, clutching Ribbons against my chest like a soft, silent shield.

The sun was higher now, slicing across the motel forecourt in brilliant shards that bounced off every dusty surface. It caught on the windscreen of our car, making it difficult to see straight ahead. The tiny chips in the glass fractured the light into miniature rainbows that danced on the dashboard, too pretty for such a tired morning.

Mum climbed in first, pulling her seatbelt across with a quick motion that snapped into place. Her whole body moved with a restless energy, like someone who’d drunk too much coffee or hadn’t slept at all. She turned the key and the engine coughed once—as if waking up reluctantly—then caught with a rough, steady growl that made the whole car vibrate faintly.

The radio blared to life without warning. Static exploded into the small space like an argument already mid-fight. Mum slapped the power button hard and the noise cut off instantly, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. Mack and I exchanged a glance but didn’t speak.

We climbed into the back. The vinyl seats were cold enough to bite through our jeans, and the cabin smelt like travel mints, old receipts, and the lingering trace of anxiety—like the scent that clings to rooms after an argument. There was also the smell of our own sleep, that familiar blend of breath and warmth and yesterday’s clothes that seemed to coat the air.

Mum pulled out of the car park without checking her mirrors, the tyres crunching over gravel in a sound like bones or beetle shells being crushed underfoot. The rising sun threw our shadows long across the bitumen, stretching us into distorted giants that faded quickly as we turned back onto the road.

I looked behind us.

The Copper Post Motel shrank quickly in the distance. In the soft morning light, it looked more faded, less certain of itself. Like it had been trying to stand tall all night but now was slumping into the day, tired of keeping secrets. The row of doors stared blankly outward—still no movement, still no people, just numbers in gold paint.

All the curtains remained shut.

Every single one.

No drawn blinds. No cracks of light. No signs that anyone had ever been inside those rooms at all. It made me think of empty theatres, stages dressed for a play that never got performed. A motel holding its breath, waiting for someone to say “Action” but knowing no one ever would.

I turned forward again, tucking my feet under me as the car picked up speed. The red dirt of the outback was already blurring past the windows, a familiar rhythm now, like the endless backdrop of a dream you keep waking into.

Mum’s hands were tight on the steering wheel. White-knuckle tight. Her fingers curled hard around the leather, the tendons in her wrists standing out like piano wires.

“Place gave me the creeps,” she muttered.

She didn’t say it with a laugh. Didn’t offer a smile to soften it. She said it low and flat, like the sentence had been sitting on her tongue all night and now it had finally dropped off.

I didn’t answer. Neither did Mack.

But my mind spun back to the woman at reception. The one who’d looked at Mack like she knew something about him he didn’t yet. Who said Mum was smart in a way that made it sound like a warning, not a compliment. Who mentioned “before it really starts” like there was still more beginning to come.

I thought about how no one else had been there—not really. About the drawn curtains. The mute walls. The receptionist this morning who looked straight through us like we were only partially there.

And then, I thought about the sound I’d heard in the night.

That soft, tentative whine.

It had sounded like Charlie.

But Charlie wasn’t with us. Not yet.

And if it wasn’t her—then what had it been?

Maybe nothing.

Or maybe that’s what the outback did—it made you question every sound, every silence, every breath of wind against a tin roof. It made you feel watched by places that didn’t have eyes.

I leaned my head against the window. It was cold against my cheek, and I let it numb me a little. I watched the motel disappear into the rear-view, swallowed by dust and light and the kilometres we were already putting between us.

Maybe it wasn’t the motel that was strange.

Maybe it was us. Out of place. Out of time. Passing through a world that knew we no longer belonged.