The Stinging Tree
Brad struggled to his feet and dragged the boy backwards.
His feet were lifeless. They wobbled and dragged in the mud, turning from side to side.
One of the boy's shoes came loose at the heel, caught on a root. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. A really bad sting from a tree could kill you. The boy could die. Brad knew that. He had to get him to hospital.
He'd drive up to his house. Mum was home. They could ring the ambulance or take him to the station themselves.
What? Something he'd forgotten.
There was no bridge.
Damn! He'd have to run home. But not all the way. He could drive down to the bridge anyway, cross the creek and run from there. It would take half an hour, maybe more. They would have to come and get the boy -- take him across the creek, take him to the hospital in Alderton.
But, wait up. Where had the car come f