الصوت المشترك

Will and Pheonix revved their tractors at dawn in Loxton, engines coughing like grumpy dragons. Across the dusty paddock they raced, wheels bouncing, laughter trailing behind them like flags. Will cut close to the fence; Pheonix took the muddy shortcut and surged ahead. At the gate they skidded to a tie, breathless and proud. “Bakery?” Will asked. Pheonix grinned. The bakery only appeared on Thursdays, or so everyone said. They drove into town anyway, hopeful. Between the post office and nothing