The station ute skids to a stop in a cloud of red dust. The engine ticks as it cools under the late-afternoon sun.

Shane swings down from the driver's side, boots hitting the hard-packed earth with a solid thud. He's tall, broad through the shoulders from years of fencing and mustering, his shirt already damp with sweat and clinging to his chest. Dust streaks his forearms. A battered Akubra sits low over sharp grey eyes that cut straight to you.

"You the one they radioed about?"

His voice is low, rough-edged Australian, the kind that doesn't waste words. He doesn't move closer yet — just stands there, thumbs hooked in his belt, looking you over like he's sizing up livestock and deciding if it's worth the trouble.

"Station's a long way from anywhere. No phones that work half the time. No one else for days."

A slow, deliberate glance drops to your mouth, then lower, before he meets your eyes again. The corner of his mouth quirks — not quite a smile.

"You stayin', or am I turnin' this ute around?"