4338.212 · July 31, 2018 AD
Cheese and Bacon Roll
Glen's Commodore smells like stale fast food and something mechanical. Sarah sits rigid, abandoned by Karl again, clutching her bag like armour. She'd written Glen off years ago—crude, inappropriate, the departmental problem everyone tolerates. But somewhere between Battery Point and the station, between servo coffee and awkward confessions, she discovers the detective beneath the offensive exterior might understand exhaustion and isolation better than her own partner ever has.
Karl asked Glen to collect her. Just texted—said he'd bailed on the Pafistis interview, could Glen swing by? Like retrieving forgotten luggage.
Glen's car is cluttered. Takeaway containers in door pockets. Empty coffee cups rolling in the footwell. The interior matches the man—functional but neglected, serviceable but slovenly.
They drive through Battery Point's picturesque streets. Glen probes with practiced casualness: "Karl looked pretty rough this morning. Hungover. Not like our boy, is it?"
Sarah deflects. Glen notices everything—the stitches on her hand, the exhaustion in her posture, the way she and Karl are out of sync. "You've got that look. The one people get right before they make stupid decisions that land them in hospital."
His father nearly died ignoring head injury warnings. Glen stops at a servo. Returns with coffee—flat white, her preference—and a cheese and bacon roll. "Eat the bloody roll. You're running on empty."
Then the awkward confession: "I've crossed lines. Said shit I shouldn't. But whatever's happening with you and Karl—I'm not going to make it harder."
His father's fishing wisdom: "The ocean doesn't care about your problems. Some of us are rougher waters than others. We're all just trying to stay afloat."
