1983 starts like any other year in Loganlea. Hot and wet. Our street is flooded as it always is in January, the height of the cyclone season. I stand on the upstairs verandah and watch two entire gum trees float past the house, rushing towards the creek. Our family is like the flood below, each one of us kids a fallen branch that could be smashed to bits any time. Trish, twenty-two, the medical student; Barb, nineteen, the prettiest one; Val, eighteen, who is wild; and Bev, fifteen and so far, so good. Then comes Brian, twelve, the only boy; and then you, seven, and me, four: the accidents. When people ask me how many brothers and sisters I have, I always pause, and not for effect. I just can’t…
