A kid on an early paper round had a go at breaking the windscreen of Miller's Ford Customline with bricks, and woke Miller up. The pattern of cracks pulsed and Miller was reminded of those bullets coming through the perspex of the chopper that was bringing him back to Nui Dat. He thought: Hair of the dog. Miller's two-tone home rocked on its springs as he felt beneath the seat. He had his eyes closed in case there were spiders in the windscreen web. A spring in the back seat pulled a thread on his trousers. A good car in its day, the Customline.
Disher, Garry, Now When It Rains, Kunapipi, 9(2), 1987.