Rain. Before I was even awake, I was aware of the rain. My eyes cracked open, seeing the dark splotches on the tent roof, the steady sound soothing.

I wasn't ready to stick my head out and greet the soggy world just yet. I eased into a sitting position, tried to push away the bad thoughts: the slain cops, Bev's barrel pointing square at my heart, Rueben's pitying gaze, the taste of chocolate furtively eaten as a barrier against the feelings. Ugh. It wasn't that I'd thought going on a road trip of this magnitude would be as relaxing as a Fijian vacay, but this was turning into a Hunger Games spinoff, and I wasn't enjoying it.

Squatting in the small space, I began to pack up and dress for the day. Tights... Where are my tights? I searched under my sleeping bag and the slender sleeping pad and dug through my backpack. No sign of them.

I washed them! I grinned at having worked out the mystery, then my smile faded. Crap. I'd hung my tights and tee on the clothes line beside the toilet block – which was not undercover. In the steady rain, they were sure to be soaked.

Thoughtfully, I considered my wardrobe options. I'd worn my stretchy work pants around the fire and while I slept, but they would be thick and unforgiving during a bike ride, particularly if they got wet. What if...? The cargos peeped from my backpack, and I tugged them out. Surely they'd fit. I'd spent two full days bike riding; I could feel the strength in my thighs and the soreness of my stomach muscles. I had to have lost weight.

But not only did Gandalf forbid the pants to pass the curve of my thighs, he raised his staff even sooner than the first time I'd tried the cargos on. "How the hell is that possible?" I grumbled out loud, knowing the answer and not wanting to face it head-on.

Still, my brain smugly catalogued everything I'd eaten since Tuesday, throwing each menu item in my face. Toblerone. Bread. Vodka. More bread. Pastries. Processed protein bars. Even more bread.

My stomach gurgled, advising loudly that bread sounded pretty good right now. "No," I said to myself, disgusted with everything. I was doomed to a day of cross-country cycling in business-pant synthetic fabric, seams stretching and cracking from moisture and movement, rubbing everywhere. It was my punishment, but perhaps I could earn back some grace. "Green stuff. That's what I need."

And where would that come from? I pictured a supermarket vegetable section in all its organised perfection, each cucumber flawless, the lettuces crispy, the broccoli lush. I swore a silent curse against my past self, a rage against each time she'd had access to something healthy and alive, and had chosen processed garbage instead.

And there was an excellent chance I'd be eating only processed food for a long time, at least until I reached the farm. Maybe that's when my new, clean-living self would begin.

But then, the image of Dean marvelling at my slender form as I coasted up to my brother's house started to slip away, replaced by the picture of Dean's face creasing in pity and disgust, watching my giant butt waddle up the driveway.

No. I shook my head. I wasn't going to let it go down that way. If I couldn't eat green, I wouldn't eat at all. No more scavenged, packaged nonsense. I could diet right now.

You know you turn into a total bitch when you don't eat, murmured my stomach. "Well, it's not like I've been delightful so far anyway," I retorted, resigned to pulling on my work pants and not eating for as long as it took.

The next two days passed in a rainy blur. I'd never realised how much the precipitation would slow us down, but the driving spring showers made packing up our gear a battle. Already waterlogged, we bid farewell to Bev and co.

"Why didn't you eat your cereal?" asked Bailey through the sluicing downpour as we turned onto the road.

The oldies had offered us boxes of Coco Pops and Fruit Loops with long-life milk. I'd declined. "I'm not hungry," I said, extremely hungry.

We rode in the rain, miserable and silent. My hunger felt like a phantom limb, or a gnawing parasite, reminding me of its presence every minute of every hour.

The next major town was Yass, a five hour ride according to Maps. It took us eight. "Yass, bish," muttered Nev as we rode past the freeway exit. No one responded.

A McDonald's roadhouse lay empty just past the town, and we pulled around the back and camped for the night in the food truck loading bay. It was too windy to build a fire, so Simon distributed more energy bars and we each crawled into our tents, drained and cold and soggy. I dropped my bar back in Simon's trailer when no one was looking.

We awoke to more rain. Miserable, I packed up my gear, but as I staggered from a wave of dizziness, I bitterly smiled. A full twenty-four hours and I was already dizzy. Good. It was working. Soon, I'd be burning disgusting fat.

With each push of my pedals that day, I berated myself, an insult for every metre. Fat. Lazy. Fat. Revolting. Unlovable. Unsexy. Fat. Fat. Fat. When the pelting shower seemed to waver around me and I almost rode off the highway into a ditch, a savage satisfaction streamed out my every pore. More dizziness, more weight loss.

Eat? asked my body.

Sure, I replied. As soon as we find something carb-free, sugar-free, fat-free. Until then, burn off what you're already carting around, lard-ass.

It felt right. Rain, unending. Food deprived. Seeped in misery. It was what I deserved, a bleak existence for a chubby loser.

About five kilometres from our next stop at Gundagai, the sun finally emerged, the clouds speeding from the sky as if they'd never existed in the first place. "Yay!" I heard Mischa cry from the front of the convoy.

We paused where the freeway crossed the Murrumbidgee River and watched the glistening water flow beneath us. Dark smoke hung over the small city on the far side of the river and I didn't believe that it was coming from a campfire.

"I hear a horse," said Mischa, smoothing her damp hair from her forehead.

My stomach ached, partly from hunger, but mostly from wanting to dry Mischa's hair and wrap her in a fluffy towel.

"You're probably hearing the trees or something, Mish," said Rueben. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and I looked away. Two full days of focusing on Dean and my future skinny self, and I'd almost managed to forget the way his kind eyes observed everything, the broad line of his shoulders, the way my body reacted to his.

"Wait... I hear it too," said Nev. She squeezed Bailey's hand, and I saw Bailey frown as they cocked their head.

"It is horses. Coming from that way." Bailey pointed south along the road, shiny from the rain, now shining in the sun.

Everyone looked, and in the distance a tiny shape appeared; a pair of horses pulling something behind them. "We should get off the road," I said authoritatively. "We're in the country, everyone has guns out this way."

"What if they can help us?" Rueben replied. "Or maybe we can help them?"

"Are you kidding me? The last time we trusted a stranger, I nearly got shot." I didn't pull my tone, allowing the vitriol I felt to steep into my words.

He frowned, hurt. "If we don't at least try to connect with other people, we're as bad as Bev, responding with gunfire to everyone."

"At least Bev is safe. We're hanging out here like an exposed ball sack."

"What's a ball sack?" asked Mischa.

Nev jumped in. "Like at your school, the big bag they keep all the play balls in." Nev's glare in my direction was icy, but I was beyond caring.

"You all trusted me to get us to Tasmania. We're not even halfway there, and we've seen two people killed and been held at gunpoint ourselves." I pointed at Gundagai, just beyond the river curve. "I doubt that fire is related to someone toasting marshmallows. People are asshats, and trusting anyone except the people in this group is a bad idea."

The clopping of the hooves drew closer. Simon broke the stalemate. "Right, all you young people, get off the road and hide. I'll greet whoever this person is."

"And if you get shot?" I snarled.

"Then you have one less mouth to feed." He waved us back. "Bury me with my vodka."

There wasn't time to debate further. Everyone who wasn't Simon dragged their bikes down the verge next to the freeway bridge. Rigid and panicked, the adults hid the bikes and Mischa beneath the underpass beside the river.

Bailey enfolded Nev against their chest, and her eyes darted around, her nails extended like weapons, fierce and ready for a fight. I knew they'd protect each other, each thinking the other needed them more. Mischa crawled up into the beams supporting the overpass, cooing as she peered into a birds' nest. Rueben followed her, and I stood alone, feeling like a weird extra toe clinging to an otherwise normal foot.

Staying low, I crept back up the hill and into a cluster of scratchy bushes beside the road. A few feet away, Simon leaned against the bridge railing with an uncorked scotch bottle to his lips.

"Of course," I muttered.

"Of course what?"

The nearness of the voice made me squeak. "Rueben, what the hell?"

He crouched beside me in the bushes, entirely too near for me to be comfortable. "I'm not leaving you up here alone to play martyr if anything goes wrong."

"I'm not a martyr," I hissed. "I just don't have as much to lose as the rest of you."

"That's not true."

"Bailey and Nev have each other. You have a daughter."

"And you have all of us." He reached for me, then gauging my expression, withdrew his hand. "Besides, we need you too."

Something stirred in me; beneath the fatigue and ketosis, the unfurling of something delicate. Hope. "You do?"

"Of course." He smiled easily. "It would be pretty weird if we rocked up at your parents farm without you."

"Right." I turned away, burned. That was my usefulness. Not as a person, but as an envoy, as a key master to their future and safety. As always, I fell just short of being treasured in my own right.

"Karla, are you okay?"

"Shh. They're here."

The horse hooves were closer now, loud and abrasive against the silence we'd become accustomed to on the empty roads. A man sat in the front of a wagon, and he slowed the horses to greet Simon. "You're not going to try and rob me or anything stupid, are you?" he growled, lifting a long shotgun from his lap.

Simon belched in his throat. "Nope. I just wanted to say hello."

The two men stared at each other, sizing up like two dogs circling. "I'm Paul," said the gunman.

"Simon. Where are you headed?"

"Canberra." Paul tilted his chin to the wagon he pulled. "I've got a load of veggies back here. I'm going there to trade. Me next door neighbour took a load up two days ago and he did well."

Simon nodded in approval. "You farmers, you're about to become the most important people in the country again, mate."

"You better believe it. Plus, no water bills anymore – we can draw from the river without worrying about the inspectors breathing down our necks. And you don't pay taxes on trades."

"Good on ya."

"Thanks. Where are you headed?"

"Tassie."

"That's a long way. How are you doing for supplies?"

"Hanging in there."

Paul nodded at the half-empty scotch bottle. "You seem like a man who appreciates a good trade. For the rest of the bottle, I can tell you where you can refill your supplies."

Simon handed it over without a beat. The farmer took a long slug from the bottle. "That's good stuff."

"It is indeed."

"Right, mate – about a hundred k's down the Hume, you'll get to Little Billabong Creek. Follow it for about five minutes, and you'll come to the Delaney farm." He pointed vaguely down the road. "They were in Queensland when all this happened, and I doubt they'll be back anytime soon. I already cleaned out their cupboards, but the garden had a ton of stuff ready for picking that I won't get to. Take what you want, stay the night there. Their door isn't locked."

"Thanks, mate. Will do." They shook hands and Simon said, "I'll treat the place like me own."

"Cheers." Paul paused. "Stay out of the small towns, if you can. They've all gone to shit, people acting like bloody soccer fans at a World Cup riot. Canberra's holding up because they've got emergency plans and pretty good infrastructure to support their people, but I wouldn't trust anyone else you meet on the Hume. Not everyone is a top bloke like me."

"Too true." Simon tipped his helmet in lieu of a hat. "Cheers, Paul. Look after yourself."

"You too, mate."

He clopped off, towing the load of precious cargo with him. As he passed where Rueben and I hid, I was gripped with a manic thought, driven by the knowledge of the food about to slip beyond our grasp: we could take him. We had five adults with us, and even with his gun, we could easily overpower him and take his produce and his wagon. Cut to a quick flash of myself laying lazily in horse-drawn comfort, gnawing on snow peas, slender and sundrenched.

The urge to rob a stranger passed as the wagon trundled by. What is happening to me? I wondered in horror. I wasn't this person. Was that a mad impulse driven by hunger, or had I picked up a perverse imp along the road of societal breakdown and endless travel?

A soft voice spoke. "I told you, trust in people is a good thing," said Rueben, gently nudging me with his shoulder.

"And even the farmer told us not to trust anyone," I said, standing up and picking my way out of the bush.

"Rueben is right," said Simon, wheeling his bike over to where we stood. "We have to believe that humanity is more than a collective of selfish buggers, or we're never getting through this."

"Trust is a bullshit concept," I said, waving them both away like pesky mosquitos. "I'm not sure it even exists. There's trading, sure – that guy traded you for grog, whatever – but it's not trust."

"We trust each other," said Rueben.

"We need each other. There's a difference." I was on a roll now, ranting even as the tears gathered in my eyes. "My staff needed me for wages, I needed them to run my business. You need us to get your daughter to a safe place, we need you to get us across the Tasman. It's necessity, not trust."

Both men goggled at me silently, hurt radiating off them. Rueben spoke first. "Karla... human relationships are about more than need."

"I don't believe that anymore." Shivering with hunger, I wrapped my arms around my chest, defying either of them to come up with proof.

Simon cracked his knuckles. "You want trust? What would it take?"

"It's not something you can buy," I replied scathingly.

"But I bet I can trade for it." Simon's eyebrows pressed south in anxious arches. "How about tonight, it's my turn to play Nev's game."

I shook my head. "What game?"

"That stupid story thing she started with Bailey, the 'who hurt me' thing."

My lips parted in surprise. I knew so little about Simon's story, despite working with him for years; he was as private as a British Royal's private Insta account.

He drew a shuddering breath. "Tonight, I'll tell you my story. Because, despite whatever bull you're trying to tell yourself right now, Ms Karla, I actually trust you people."

He wheeled the bike and trailer down the hill towards the others, and Rueben paced after him, keeping the back of the trailer steady as they bumped along.

I watched them, empty, sorrowful, wishing someone would put a hand on me and steady my journey.

So, this chapter was pretty bleak - soz! I shall post another one asap - but in the meantime, please vote if you're enjoying the story as a whole.

The disordered eating topic in this chapter is from personal experience: people who've read The Curves Ahead know that I struggle with my weight, and I can't seem to lose weight unless I stop eating entirely - which isn't sustainable long-term, obvs. It's a horrendous cycle that only ends with me hating my body and hating myself for not having stronger will power.

I don't have a solution, but leave me some love in the comments if you feel me. xx Kate