Prologue

Static fractures the image on the screen. It’s an old TV, like everything else in our apartment. I sit on my knees in front of it and hit the side with my hand. The image clears. I crank the dial that turns up the volume.

“We have very little information at this time, but from the sheer number of incidents it would appear that there is at least some truth to what we’re hearing.” The newsman looks calm, he speaks with a learned composure. But I can see his fingers tapping nervously on the edges of his desk.

“Move your ass!” I feel mum’s foot kick me in the side of the leg. I scamper sideways, exhaling sharply at the pain. Mum’s sitting on the moth-eaten sofa just a few feet behind me. “It’s my bloody TV, isn’t it?” I don’t reply. It’s always better if I don’t reply.

The newsman gets distracted by something off the screen. The lines on his face seem to lessen, and he has a look of relief as he turns back to the camera. “I’ve been informed we have a reporter in the field.” The image changes jarringly.

Now I see a view of one of the streets downtown. There are people running past in the background. A reporter can be seen standing off centre, and a little too far away from the camera. “It’s hard to describe what we’re witnessing here,” she says, glancing over her shoulder in the direction the people are running. “There’s a lot of people out on the streets - there’s a lot of excitement - it’s hard to get a clear view but we’re going to try and get a little closer,” she starts walking. The camera follows her, unsteady and out of focus.

“Bloody useless,” grumbles mum, “feels like I’m watching something you filmed,” she lets out one of her raspy laughs. I hate that laugh.

Shouts start coming through the TV speakers. I see more people running and then a crowd gathered in the centre of the street. “It seems to be happening all over the city,” the reporter says, looking back at the camera as she goes. She’s almost running now. There’s a lot of movement all around her. “Get a shot of it,” the reporter says to the cameraman. The screen turns to the crowd.

I strain my eyes, trying to make sense of the strange scene in front of me. Things are falling down from the sky and into the large crowd below. Things that drift and spin like leaves. The people are shouting and jumping on top of each other, reaching up to catch them out of the air. I inch closer to the screen, as close as I can get without blocking my mum’s view. My knees protest the movement against the concrete floor.

“I can’t see where it’s coming from,” says the reporter, her voice distressed, “get a close up.” The screen zooms in.

I catch glimpses of faces, fevered with excitement. They reach up and grab the falling things by the handful. They look like small slips of paper. I feel my body begin to flush with excitement. With envy. Are those what I think they are?

“You’re shitting me,” says mum as she lifts her hefty body off the sofa to get a better view.

The camera pans up, trying to see where the slips of paper are coming from. The air is thick with the tumbling things. The screen continues to rise, and then, suddenly, they’re gone. The screen shows nothing but empty sky.

The man behind the camera doesn’t seem to know what happened. He zooms out a bit, then back in again. He points the camera at the spot where it lost sight of the falling things. It’s hard to see for a moment, the camera is unsteady, the image unfocused. The top half of the screen is empty, nothing but sky. But from the middle down, the paper falls like rain. It’s coming from nowhere. From nothing.

The screen zooms out quickly. The reporter is up against the edges of the crowd, reaching up and trying to grab the paper like the rest of them. I don’t see her make the catch, but all of a sudden she is running back to the camera, her hair dishevelled and her eyes wide. She holds up what she has in her hand. There is no mistaking it, the $100 bill takes up enough of the screen to show clearly.

“Fuck me,” says mum. I almost swear too, but habits ingrained in me long ago make me swallow it. I can’t swear in front of mum, not even when she swears. Especially not when she swears.

The image changes back to the Newsroom. The transition is even more jarring than before. The Anchorman is sitting at his desk, fingers still tapping. He clears his throat. “I apologise for that footage, it was - unprofessional.” He trails off. His eyes don’t leave the camera, but he sits there in silence for much too long. When he continues, there is a rehearsed feel to his voice, like he is mimicking the words. “Due to the nature of these events and the widespread occurrences we feel it is best to advise you to stay indoors.” He pauses, shaking his head just a fraction.

I can barely hear his voice as I leap to my feet - More on this, as it unfolds - I’m smiling, a real honest-to-god genuine smile. Money is falling from the sky, right out on the street not too far from our tiny flat. It would take me five steps from where I am now to make it to our front door. I wouldn’t even have to avoid anything - all we own is the sofa, the mattress in the corner, and the old TV we found on the side of the road. This is our chance. This is my chance! With that money I could -

“Don’t even think about it.”

I freeze. The stillness of my body feels wrong given how fast my heart is racing. I look over at mum. Her head is lowered, and her deep grey eyes are looking up at me through the tangle of hair drooping down her forehead. It’s a look I’ve seen many times before. One that switches on my instincts to run and hide as easily as the roar of a tiger would.

“Mum, it’s falling from - it’s free-”

“It is NOT free! How many times do I have to tell you, ey? Nothing is free! They’ll make ‘em pay - all those people - they’ll make YOU pay too!” She’s advancing on me as she speaks, forcing me backwards towards the wall.

“They can’t,” my voice is a squeak.

A raspy laugh belches out of mum’s mouth. “They can. They always do. You’re just too young and stupid to know it yet. But you will. You’ll learn the hard way, like you learn everything else!”

The instinct to run wins.

I sprint for the door and mum’s screaming and thundering footsteps chase me all the way. I hurl it open and throw myself down the spiralling staircase beyond, trying desperately to ignore the threats mum hurls after me. There’ll be hell to pay later, but there’s no turning back now. I’m too far gone.