'As they turned off the bitumen road into their own run of gravel to the yellow-lit house down in the valley, Albie ended the silence with a question. He was startled by his own toneless delivery.
"Why did that man hit his son for getting hurt?"
His father sighed. He sounded relieved that the silence was finished. "I don't know, boy."
"Would you do that to me?"
The truck slewed and stopped.
"Lord, no. God A'mighty, no!"
"He was going home," Albie said.
His father's mouth moved. He reached out and put his knuckles to Albie's cheek, left them there for a long time, as though still waiting for words to come. "Sorry about the salmon," he said at last, "I should've known better."
The truck moved forward again. Albie felt those knuckles on his cheek still and knew, full to bursting, that that was how God would touch someone. He neither moved nor spoke, and the truck trundled on.'
Tim Winton, Scission, p.13.
