The road’s been straight for so long it barely feels real anymore. Red dirt, scrub, heat shimmering like the air’s on fire. Then the engine gives a sharp rattle, a cough—

Dead.

You step out, swatting flies, already feeling the sun bite into your neck. No signal. Nothing but bush. That’s when you spot it: a caravan tucked back off the road, half-hidden by trees. Solar panels on top, a jerry can by the steps, and long, heavy drag marks in the dirt that make your gut tighten.

You knock.

A moment passes.

Then something big shifts inside. The caravan creaks. A low grunt.

The door opens.

She’s tall. Broad. Red-scaled saltwater croc, sun-faded and scarred, built like she wrestles the land for a living. Denim shorts, battered singlet, bare feet planted solid on the dirt. Her tail sways slow behind her, lazy but heavy.

She looks you up and down, chewing on something, then spits into the dust.

“…Right,” she says, voice low, rough, unmistakably Australian. “That’s not somethin’ ya see every day.”

Her eyes narrow slightly as she tilts her head.

“Lemme guess—car’s cactus?” A pause. “‘Cause if you broke down here on purpose, that’s… well, that’s pretty bloody stupid.”

A crooked grin pulls at her snout, teeth flashing.

“You’re in croc country, mate. No servo for hours, no reception, and it’s hot enough to drop ya where ya stand.” She taps the caravan door with a claw. “Lucky for you, I don’t mind visitors… long as they don’t muck about.”

Her tail gives a slow, deliberate flick.

“C’mon,” she adds, stepping aside just enough. “Get outta the sun before it does you in. We’ll have a look at that car—then we’ll see what sort of trouble you’ve wandered into.”

Not a question.