Satisfying Hunger

“Sometimes all it takes to survive the collapse of reality is a cold Sprite, a hot chip, and the one small victory of saying ‘no’ to someone who always expects you to say ‘yes’.”

The heat bore down on me with the dogged persistence of something personally offended by my continued existence. It wasn't simply warm, nor even merely oppressive—it was punishing. A thick, heavy pressure that pushed against my chest, curled itself around my limbs, and seeped into the very marrow of my bones. January in Elizabeth had always been brutal, but today it felt vindictive, almost sentient in its malice, as if the sun itself had narrowed its ancient gaze directly upon me and decided—of all possible targets—that I deserved its full wrath.

The blackened asphalt beneath my feet shimmered with mirage-like intensity, its cracked, warped surface radiating waves of heat that seemed to rise in visible pulses. My shoes—already worn thin by countless airport concourses and railway platforms—felt as though they were being slowly melted from the soles upward, the heat travelling like a silent current, seeping into my spine and pooling between my shoulder blades. My shirt clung damply to my back. Every breath felt heavier than the last.

And my stomach—empty and loudly resentful—chose that precise moment to remind me, with a low and unmistakably audible protest, that the only thing it had processed today was a dry muffin and two ill-advised glasses of airline wine. That fleeting chemical warmth had long since vanished, leaving in its place a hollow gnawing sensation that seemed to echo with every laboured step.

I cast yet another glance toward the station, more out of reflex now than hope. Still nothing. No familiar vehicle nosing into the carpark. No glimpse of Josh’s unmistakable silhouette stepping out of his car with that slightly exaggerated swagger he always fell into when he thought someone might be watching. No sign. No sound. No movement. Just heat, cracked concrete, and the smothering silence of a meeting that felt increasingly like it was never meant to happen.

The absence had started to take on a quality of intention. A quiet, deliberate withholding that made the hairs on the back of my neck twitch. The longer I waited, the more Josh’s silence transformed from a mere inconvenience into something else—something that pulsed with threat. Something wrong.

Then I saw it. The McDonald’s.

A squat, unimpressive structure squatting behind the station precinct, its garish red-and-yellow signage almost glowing with smug familiarity in the blinding sun. The golden arches rose above the roofline like a benediction of mediocrity. Cheap, uniform comfort. Fluorescent nostalgia. Climate control.

The smell reached me a heartbeat later, as if summoned by the mere act of looking. Salt. Oil. Fryers. Fries. That unmistakable perfume of overcooked adolescence and sodium-slick nostalgia. It slid through the scorching air like a tide, curled its invisible fingers around my hunger, and tugged — slow and certain.

And with it came a memory.

Seth and I, years ago, slumped in a corner booth of the Rosny Maccas just after midnight — two half-strangers escaping a soggy house party in Bellerive we’d both silently agreed was doomed from the start. We’d bailed without fanfare, too sober to enjoy the chaos, too tired to pretend otherwise.

The fries had been limp, the cheeseburgers suspiciously tepid, but we’d laughed anyway — over nothing. Everything. The hollow seriousness of turning twenty-five. The absurdity of frozen Coke. The slow, quiet recognition that we’d somehow slipped into something rare.

I could still see it, clear as the present: cracked phone screens lighting our faces, napkins balled beside greasy wrappers, the distant hum of the McFlurry machine grinding away like some broken prophecy.

That night hadn’t meant to be significant. And yet it was.

That was before everything had gone sideways.

Before this.

I didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to look away from the station. Didn’t want to admit that this—this act of retreat—felt like giving up, even temporarily. But the lure of cold air and food I could consume without effort was, in the end, stronger than my resolve. Pride doesn’t keep you standing upright when you’re melting into the pavement.

With a low sigh of defeat, I shoved my hands deep into my pockets, and turned. Each step toward the distant McDonald’s felt reluctant, dragging. The concrete seemed to groan underfoot, as if even the ground disapproved of this small, human concession to weakness. My feet scuffed as I walked, kicking at loose pebbles and burnt leaves.

The reflective windows mirrored the sun with brutal fidelity, transforming the glass façade into a wall of harsh light that threw back my own image at me like an accusation. I barely recognised the figure reflected there: eyes squinting against the brightness, hair matted with sweat, jaw clenched tight with a mix of hunger, exhaustion, and a thousand unanswered questions. I looked like a man halfway to collapse.

Then the doors opened.

A gust of artificially chilled air hit me with the force of revelation. I inhaled sharply, savouring it like a man crawling from a desert into an oasis. The difference was immediate—sweat began to dry against my skin, the roaring furnace of the outside world suddenly replaced by the softly humming machinery of processed coolness. It felt miraculous.

Inside, the restaurant buzzed with the predictable rhythm of subdued conversation, the shuffling of trays, and the distant hissing of fryers. Teenagers behind the counter moved with the mechanical rhythm of repetition—underpaid, overtired, halfway through a long shift. The décor was comfortingly bland—plastic fixtures in vaguely modernist shapes, ketchup-red booths polished smooth by years of indifferent elbows.

The smell of fries was stronger here, more invasive, more intoxicating. I stood just inside the threshold for a moment longer, letting it all wash over me—the smell, the sound, the blessed artificiality of it. It was exactly the same as every McDonald's I’d ever visited. Safe. Stale. Comfortingly indifferent to my panic.

There was no portal here. No disappearing woman. No hidden backpack wedged beneath ancient stone. Just processed food and cold air and a drink machine that probably hadn't been cleaned in a month. And for a moment, in that strange and weightless pause between dread and action, I could almost pretend the rest of the day hadn’t happened at all.

I approached the counter with the automatic detachment of someone going through the motions—each step measured, more habit than decision. My eyes, feigning interest, scanned the garishly illuminated menu boards above with the hollow deliberation of a man pretending to consider his options. The aggressively saturated photographs of burgers, sundaes, and glowing beverages loomed overhead like artefacts from a simpler universe—a world built on impulse and instant gratification. Their glossy, artificial certainty seemed to mock the storm quietly brewing beneath the surface inside me.

A handful of other customers drifted nearby in varying states of inertia and distraction. A tired young mother half-heartedly pleaded with two small children who were testing the physical limits of sugar-fuelled chaos. A pair of teenage boys stood close enough to share a single set of earbuds, their heads rhythmically bobbing in mutual disinterest. At a corner table, an elderly gentleman solemnly worked his way through a soft-serve cone that had begun its slow collapse against the unforgiving tyranny of the air-conditioned interior.

They were snapshots of unremarkable, ordinary life—people wrapped in their own stories, untouched by extra-dimensional disappearances, cryptic siblings, or the vague suspicion that you might be quietly unravelling at the seams.

"What can I get for you today?" The girl behind the counter recited the question with textbook intonation, the kind honed through repetition until it became something closer to muscle memory than genuine interest. Her name tag declared her 'Fiona', though the dulled glaze in her eyes suggested she hadn’t truly identified with that label since the start of her shift. She looked to be somewhere in her early twenties, though the burdens of food service had aged her considerably—shoulders slightly slouched, voice carefully devoid of emotional investment.

"Erm, I’ll have a Quarter Pounder meal, please," I said, the words catching slightly in my throat as they emerged. My voice sounded scratchier than I’d anticipated, a rasp of re-entry into verbal communication after what now seemed like hours of internalised panic.

"Large Sprite, thanks." The sentence came out clipped, each word honed by the effort of restraint. I could hear the tension in it—see it in the way her eyes flicked up for a second, assessing, then slid away again.

Her fingers moved deftly across the digital register, tapping in the order with the unconscious grace of a thousand repetitions. I hesitated for the briefest of moments, then added, "And a large chocolate sundae as well, please."

A flicker of something—surprise, maybe—crossed her face. Her left eyebrow arched by a fraction, as though mildly perplexed by the incongruity of the meal pairing. But she said nothing. Just keyed in the dessert and waited for me to complete the transaction. I fumbled the card from my wallet and swiped without speaking, then stepped aside to wait, silently grateful for the anonymity of transactional spaces.

The soft churn of the ice cream machine behind the counter became a focal point for my thoughts, its mechanical hum oddly calming amidst the mental storm still swirling unchecked in my mind. My phone remained inert in my pocket. No buzz. No message. No call. Just silence where there should have been certainty.

When my tray finally arrived, I collected it with the reverence of a man accepting sacrament. Food. Shelter. Air-conditioning. A moment of small, structured relief in an otherwise directionless chaos. I made my way toward an empty booth by the front window—one with a clear view of the carpark and, beyond that, the entrance to the train station.

The vinyl seat gave a low, reluctant groan beneath me as I sat down, its sticky surface slightly clinging to the back of my legs through the fabric of my trousers. I didn’t care. My body ached in too many places to bother with comfort now. My thoughts, however, remained far from still.

The sun outside continued its assault, bouncing mercilessly off the reflective surface of nearby car roofs, creating dancing pools of light that fractured across the window and stabbed at my vision with retinal precision. I squinted, momentarily shielding my eyes with one hand as I surveyed the carpark once more. Still no sign of Josh. No movement. No familiar silhouette striding across the concrete. Just heat, cars, and the heavy throb of time dragging on without explanation.

I turned my attention to the tray in front of me, the sight of food strangely grounding. The burger—steam curling invitingly from beneath its crinkled paper wrapping—gave off the exact smell I needed. Grease, salt, bread, familiarity. I took my first bite, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I tasted something other than fear.

The sensation was immediate and primal—warm beef, molten cheese, crisp lettuce, and the distinctive sting of pickles. Each flavour landing precisely where it was meant to, bypassing my overworked mind and travelling straight to the parts of me that still remembered comfort. My body responded with startling enthusiasm. I hadn’t realised how depleted I was until that first mouthful. My jaw moved faster than I expected, chewing with the fervour of survival rather than civility.

I devoured the entire burger with startling speed. There was no ceremony, no pause to appreciate individual textures or savour nuanced flavour. Just hunger—honest, urgent, and long denied. With every swallow, the hollow ache in my stomach eased and the haze in my mind lifted, if only slightly.

It had been far too long since breakfast.

That hastily devoured muffin and tepid coffee from Hobart Airport now felt like ancient history—like echoes from a past life that had somehow belonged to someone else entirely.

By the time I’d finished the substantial burger—its residual grease still slicking my fingertips and the corner of the thin napkin I’d used more as a prop than an effective tool—I felt, if not quite renewed, then at the very least recognisably human again. The brittle tension that had coiled itself like barbed wire across my shoulders finally began to slacken, unwinding just enough to allow me a deep, measured breath. I leaned back against the sticky vinyl with deliberate ease, cradling my ice-cold Sprite like a fragile relic of civilisation.

The Sprite was, in that moment, nothing short of miraculous—bitingly cold and sharp against the parched desert of my throat, its fizzy burn clearing away the dregs of stress like rain on ash. I took several slow sips, each one more restorative than the last, while my eyes wandered back toward the still-untouched chocolate sundae patiently awaiting its moment.

Around me, the ambient murmur of the restaurant carried on at its indifferent pace, a comforting tapestry of minor chaos. Fryers beeped in rhythmic defiance, timers blared, orders were called out and met with distracted glances. The quiet din of overlapping conversations folded in with the occasional shrill burst of childish laughter from the counter queue. It was the universal soundtrack of a McDonald’s anywhere in the world—blessedly predictable, deliciously mundane.

I selected the longest, crispiest chip I could find from the red cardboard sleeve, inspecting it briefly with the reverence of a ritual long rehearsed. With a deft flick of the wrist, I dipped it deep into the glossy surface of the sundae, swirling until it came away thickly coated in slowly softening vanilla and syrupy chocolate. The moment of contrast—hot and cold, savoury and sweet, crisp and smooth—landed on my tongue with alchemical brilliance. It was a flavour memory hardwired into my nervous system, a peculiar combination of textures and temperatures that had no business working together but always, inexplicably, did.

For that singular, blessed moment, I was nowhere else. Not in Elizabeth. Not on the run. Not hunted or haunted or uncertain of anything. I wasn’t thinking about Josh, or the missing backpack in another dimension, or the woman who might still be stalking her way toward me across a fractured map of overlapping realities. I was just a man in a booth, eating chips dipped in ice cream, savouring something uncomplicated.

And then my phone buzzed.

The vibration against the laminated tabletop was sudden and jarring, unnaturally loud in the way only bad news ever is. My entire body jolted reflexively, the half-eaten chip suspended mid-air as adrenaline surged back to life in my bloodstream like a cold slap.

I fumbled for the device, wiping my greasy fingers hastily against a crumpled napkin before swiping to answer the call. The smudged screen still bore faint marks from lunch—an abstract fingerprint painting in oil and sugar.

"Hello?" I said, uncertainly. My voice came out uneven, thinner than I’d hoped, carrying just a little too much breath.

"Nathan, it’s me." Josh’s voice emerged from the speaker with the usual distortion of poor reception, but unmistakable nonetheless—tight, slightly hoarse, and with that faintly accusatory edge that told me immediately he was annoyed.

Relief crashed over me in a great, involuntary wave—relief that he was alive, that he was nearby, that the long and eerie silence had finally ended. But it was instantly accompanied by a spike of irritation, too. Of course he was irritated. Of course he sounded put out, as though the hours of unexplained silence had been my fault somehow.

"Where are you?" I asked, sitting up instinctively. The booth groaned in complaint as I shifted forward, a soft squeak against vinyl that sounded absurdly loud in my ear.

"I’m here," he said, clipped. "In the station carpark. Where the bloody hell are you?"

That was Josh—ever the tactician, never the diplomat. I could already see the set of his jaw, hear the tapping of his fingers against the steering wheel. I imagined him scanning the carpark, exasperated that I hadn’t been obediently waiting in position like a soldier awaiting deployment.

"I’m at the McDonald’s, near the station," I replied, keeping my tone deliberately neutral, though it came out sounding faintly defensive.

There was a pause, long enough that I imagined him grinding his molars. "Why on earth didn’t you just wait at the station like I told you to?"

"Because it’s absolutely boiling out there," I snapped, my patience finally slipping through the cracks. "And I haven’t eaten a proper meal since Hobart. I was starving."

Josh let out a long, theatrical sigh that crackled down the line like radio static. I could practically hear the familiar effort it cost him not to shout.

"Fine," he said. "Just come outside, then."

"No." The word came out clean and immediate, with more steel than even I expected. It was immovable. Final. A small island of control in a storm-tossed day. I wasn’t going to be ordered around, not today. "I haven’t finished eating. You can come inside."

"Are you being serious right now?" His voice leapt in pitch, riding that familiar line between disbelief and fury. I could see his expression without effort—eyebrows lifted, jaw tight, face slowly flushing.

"Yes," I said evenly, dunking another chip into the melting sundae. "I’m sat in air-conditioned comfort, eating sugar and salt, and I have no intention of marching back out into that godforsaken heat just to soothe your sense of punctuality. Come in and find me."

There was another long pause. The kind where you could feel the weight of a brotherly power struggle playing out across a thousand miles of shared history. Then, unmistakably, the muffled sound of a fist thudding against a steering wheel.

"Fine," he said at last, bitterly.

I smiled.

It wasn’t a smug smile. Not really. Just the quiet satisfaction of having taken one small piece of the day and made it mine. I popped the chip into my mouth and chewed slowly as the call disconnected.