“There Was No Screech—Only My Screams and the Snap of Shattered Bones”

Over the years, I’ve read countless reports—calls for help, updates from carers, desperate searches that end in heartbreak. Each one struck me. Each one brought tears. But nothing compares to witnessing it. Nothing prepares you for the sound.

On Friday morning, I saw it happen. A car hit a kangaroo just ahead of me—and didn’t slow down, didn’t stop. The crack—the awful, unmistakable smash of breaking bones—echoes in my ears still. And I can’t unsee it.

My wonderful neighbour and a friend helped me scour the bush for days, hoping to find the kangaroo, praying to find him alive. I think it was a boy—his stride, his size—and four smaller roos trailed behind in confusion and fear.

For two days I scanned the mob, checking, counting. If it was one of my girls, she would have had a joey in her pouch. I needed to know.

By Saturday morning, the stragglers began coming in—every girl accounted for. Relief, yes. But then I realised… Jake. My big, beautiful boy. He hasn’t come home since Friday.

Jake. The one who disappeared for a year and only recently came back, faithful as ever to appear at the back door for breakfast. Is it him? I don’t know. Boys come and go. But this time, the not-knowing hurts.

I can’t explain the helplessness—the burning anger—as I picture that driver not even touching the brake. A young joey ran alongside the car in full panic… and still, they didn’t stop.

I understand accidents. I know roos can be unpredictable on the road. But we live here, we share this land. There are warning signs everywhere. We ask for care. For awareness. For humanity.

What I witnessed wasn’t an accident. It was indifference. And it was cruel.

The nightmares come in flashes: the thud, the blur of motion, the silence that follows. I carry this heaviness not just for Jake, or the roo I may never find—but for all the wild hearts we lose to negligence. For every little joey crying in a pouch no one checks.

Please. Slow down. Stop. Look. Check the pouch. Show up—for the ones who can’t speak, who can’t run fast enough, who trust us by default. They are not road hazards. They are lives.