He misjudged the bank of the dam, people said, when they heard Frank Slovak had overturned his tractor onto himself. Not dead, they said, but might as well be. Caught him straight across his spine. Turning at the embankment, some loose earth, must have been looking the other way, and bang, look what happens. His wife found him, they went on, pausing to let their listener visualize this a nightmare they'd all had: hearing the faint throb of the tractor engine changing as it rolled, either roaring or cutting out; or else you'd be hanging out the washing, may be, and look up to see it in the distance already on its side metal glinting, upturned rake times like fangs. Everyone had imagined, at some time, making that crazed run across the paddocks, faint with dread, the air sickeningly still over your head like the eye of a storm Pounding through dust and weeds in that unearthly silence, steeling yourself for what you're going to find.