The clear night sky offered no insulation from the insidious cold that curled around Helen with long icy fingers. Despite the jeans, jumper and woolly hat she was wearing, and being snuggled under a sparsely feathered doona, the chill penetrated the layers like a stealth bomber finding its target. Her car could double as a cool room. Shivering, she urged herself to look for something positive in the situation, but her weary sleep-deprived mind struggled to cough up one thing. Eventually it settled on the milk for her cornflakes. Unlike earlier in the year, it wouldn’t be curdled in the morning.

A vicious ‘hah!’ twisted sharp and harsh in her laugh, scaring her almost as much as sleeping in her car did. People believed homelessness meant sleeping on a park bench or in the doorway of a city office building. No one associated it with the wholesome countryside or with people who owned a car. In six months, Helen had learned every rule about how to sleep rough in her car. During the day, her age gave her an invisibility she railed against, but after dark, when she wanted to fade into the inky night, she became visible. Spending more than two nights parked anywhere risked her being noticed by the local police who told her to move on. Even free camping sites weren’t harassment-free. She’d lost count of the times she’d been told, ‘This is for real campers’. Apparently, the tiny sink in a Kombi or the mattress in a Hiace van made them far more acceptable places to sleep than her car.

Tonight, she was parked in the shadows of ironbarks in an abandoned worksite she assumed had been created for gravel piles when Vic Roads widened the highway. On her self-created scale of safety, the spot scored highly and she’d anticipated a deeper than usual sleep, but the frigid night put paid to that. Perhaps she should run the car for ten minutes and blast herself in heat? She scotched the idea immediately, unable to afford wasting precious fuel…

Continue reading the extract here…