The Second Manifest

"Some people chase destiny. Me? I just deliver it in a 2006 Toyota Corolla."

As I pulled my 2006 Toyota Corolla into the carpark, a deep sigh escaped me.

The headlights cut through the pre-dawn darkness, illuminating the familiar gravel lot and the hulking shape of the warehouse beyond. My plan to arrive early at work—a personal mission to compensate for my recent string of late mornings—seemed to have been in vain.

There, already parked in its usual spot near the office door, was Garry's car.

I'd hoped to be the first one in, to have the route planned and the truck packed before he arrived. It would have been a small victory, a way to show I was taking my responsibilities seriously. Especially after yesterday. Especially after everything.

I'd barely slept last night, my mind churning through the discoveries I'd made on Facebook—Luke Smith's profile, the tagged photo of Jamie Greyson, the dawning horror that my supposedly dead father had been watching me for weeks. The man in the photo, standing on the Berriedale deck with those same two Shih Tzus at his feet. The same face I'd glimpsed in carparks and across streets.

My father wasn't dead. He was alive. And he'd been following me.

"But on the upside," I muttered to myself, trying to find the silver lining as I shut the car door and began walking toward the office. "Now Garry will know I arrived early."

A half-smile crept onto my face at the thought, a small comfort in an otherwise frustrating situation. Garry was a decent boss—fair, practical, the kind of bloke who'd worked his way up through sheer determination. He'd started as a general labourer himself, years ago, and that showed in how he treated the younger workers. He didn't expect perfection, but he noticed effort.

The gravel crunched under my feet as I crossed the dark carpark, illuminated only by the lone lamp post standing sentinel between the office door to the right and the large roller shutter of the warehouse on the left.

The depot sat near the sprawl of industrial buildings and tin-roofed warehouses that characterised this part of town. During the day it was noisy with traffic and the constant beeping of reversing trucks. But now, in the grey half-light before sunrise, everything felt muted and still.

The quiet, early morning atmosphere of the place had a calming effect, despite my annoyance. The cool Tasmanian air bit at my face, carrying that particular winter smell of damp eucalyptus and distant wood smoke. My breath made small clouds in the darkness.

Reaching the office, I noticed the bright lights inside, but there was no sign of Garry or the manifest.

I sighed softly.

Why does he arrive so early? I pondered, somewhat rhetorically. It wasn't as if we could leave any earlier for the deliveries without risking the ire of our customers for waking them.

The office was exactly as I remembered it—cluttered desk, ancient computer monitor, the laminated map of Greater Hobart on the wall with its colour-coded delivery zones. A calendar from two years ago that nobody had bothered to replace. The faint smell of instant coffee and old paper.

As I entered the warehouse, there was Garry, as expected, loading another large box into the back of the delivery truck. Even from this distance I could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead despite the cold morning air. He moved with the practised efficiency of someone who'd loaded thousands of trucks over the years.

The sight was both reassuring and slightly exasperating.

"I get here early and you still beat me," I said in a joking tone as I approached my boss, trying to mask my slight frustration with humour.

"Ahh, Joel. Perfect timing," Garry responded without looking up, focused on his task. "The truck is almost ready to go."

I stood there for a moment, taken aback.

"But…" I stammered, my words trailing off.

It seemed like my efforts to impress him by arriving early had been overshadowed. The truck was nearly packed without my help, which left me feeling both relieved and redundant. I wasn't sure whether to be grateful for less work or concerned about the implications of my seemingly unneeded early arrival.

The warehouse stretched behind Garry, rows of shelving units stacked with parcels and boxes of various sizes. The fluorescent tubes overhead buzzed faintly, casting everything in that harsh industrial light that made colours look washed out and faces look tired.

As Garry continued to load the large delivery into the truck, his voice punctuated by the effort, I tried to process the information he was giving me.

"There's a couple of large deliveries this morning and after that it is all minor. It is actually going to be a very quiet day. I've got the route mapped and ready," he said, his breaths heavy with exertion.

A quiet day. Under normal circumstances, I'd have welcomed that. But today, with everything churning in my head about Jamie Greyson and Luke Smith, a quiet day meant more time to think. More time for my mind to spiral into places I wasn't sure I wanted to go.

"I thought we couldn't make any deliveries before eight?" I questioned, a bit puzzled by the early start.

Garry turned towards me, wiping the beads of sweat that had collected on his hairline and were now trailing down his face.

He was breathing harder than he should have been for the task—I'd noticed him slowing down over the past few months, the physical toll of the job catching up with him. He had two kids at home, a wife who worked as a teacher, and a love of camping that he rarely got to indulge. I knew because he talked about it sometimes, during the quiet moments between deliveries.

"You'll need to stop off at the Rosny depot to collect one of the packages first. Manifest is on the chair near the door," he informed me.

I was taken aback.

It was unusual for us to mix depots, especially with Rosny. They were the larger and better-equipped depot, the one that handled the bigger contracts and had the newer trucks. If there was any collaboration between depots, it was usually them helping us, not the other way around.

But I decided not to dwell on it too much. My brain was already overloaded with bigger mysteries.

I shrugged off my curiosity and went to grab the manifest from the dusty, rarely used chair by the door. The chair had been there as long as I'd worked here—an old metal thing with cracked vinyl padding, more decoration than furniture. Nobody ever sat on it. It just held paperwork that needed to be grabbed on the way out.

True to Garry's word, today's list was surprisingly short. Only six deliveries were scheduled.

It was a relief, yet it left me wondering about the day's unusual start.

As I carefully scanned the names on the manifest, it was a small habit of mine to check for anyone familiar. It helped me mentally prepare for the interactions ahead, to frame the day in my mind.

Mrs Robertson in Kingston—probably more plants for that overgrown garden of hers. A business delivery in Sandy Bay. The Rosny pickup, whatever that was. And...

Despite the morning's unusual start, today seemed lined up to be straightforward and manageable. This realisation brought a sense of relief, a brief respite from the whirlwind of thoughts about Jamie Greyson and the unresolved mysteries surrounding my father.

But then I saw the name.

"Luke Smith," I read aloud, my curiosity piqued as I recognised the name.

My heart did that strange stuttering thing it had done last night, when I'd been staring at the Facebook profile and all the pieces had started clicking into place.

My finger traced along the page to find the address.

"Huh. The same Luke Smith," I mused, a sense of surprise mixing with intrigue.

2 Wallcrest Road, Berriedale. The same address from yesterday's delivery. The same house where my father—if Jamie Greyson really was my father—apparently lived with his partner.

The manifest noted a substantial number of boxes for the Smith delivery, but curiously, it didn't specify which store in the complex they were associated with.

The coincidence was almost too much to process. Yesterday I'd delivered eight tent boxes to Luke Smith. Last night I'd discovered that Jamie Greyson—the name on my birth certificate, the father I'd been told was dead—lived with Luke Smith in that same Berriedale house. And now, this morning, another delivery to the same address?

Intrigued by another delivery for Luke Smith so soon after the last, I hopped into the back of the truck to investigate what he could possibly need with such urgency.

The interior of the truck was dim, lit only by the light spilling in from the warehouse. Boxes of various sizes were stacked along the walls, secured with the straps Garry had already fastened. The familiar smell of cardboard and packing tape filled the enclosed space.

Shuffling aside several smaller boxes, I finally unearthed multiple identical large boxes, all addressed to Luke Smith.

I examined the pictures on the boxes: each depicted a ten-person tent, featuring two large rooms flanking a spacious living area and an extended front-awning. The design included several windows and a roomy entrance.

More tents, I thought to myself, a mix of confusion and curiosity bubbling up. What does Luke need so many tents for?

The memory of Luke asking about additional stock the previous day suddenly resurfaced. He'd mentioned something about needing more, about wondering if there was other stock available. At the time I'd thought it was just idle curiosity.

But three more tents?

That made four tents total, if you counted yesterday's. Four massive ten-person tents. Enough to shelter almost fifty people.

It seemed excessive, almost strange.

An uneasy feeling began to stir in my gut, a nagging sense that there was more to this than just an ordinary purchase. The Facebook profile. The watching. The tents. Jamie Greyson living with Luke Smith in that Berriedale house with its eighty-inch TV and marble tiles.

What was going on?

"You okay mate?" Garry's voice suddenly cut through my thoughts, causing me to jump slightly.

I straightened up, rubbing my brow as I attempted to mask my confusion.

"Uh. Yeah. All good," I replied, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

Despite my words, a part of me couldn't help but wonder about the tents, about Luke Smith, and about the strange connection that seemed to be unfolding before me. The day, it seemed, might not be as simple as I had initially thought.

The minutes seemed to slip away as the morning progressed far quicker than I had expected.

The Rosny pickup had gone smoothly—just a single large box that didn't fit in their already-packed trucks, redirected to our depot for delivery. The first few stops had been routine. Mrs Robertson had indeed ordered more plants, along with what looked like garden furniture she'd need help assembling. The Sandy Bay business delivery had been quick, just dropping cartons at a loading dock.

Now I was heading north, the Brooker Highway stretching ahead of me in the weak winter sunshine. The truck rattled and hummed, a familiar sound that usually helped me think. But today my thoughts kept circling back to the same place.

Luke Smith. Jamie Greyson. The house in Berriedale.

My gaze drifted to my mobile phone resting on the seat beside me.

I remembered the first courtesy call I made to Luke yesterday, which had gone unanswered, straight to voicemail. He'd been in the shower when I arrived, standing in the doorway in damp shorts with those two Shih Tzus causing chaos at his feet. Duke and Henri, he'd called them.

Now, with the long drive ahead of me, I contemplated trying again. I had meant to call him half an hour ago, but somehow, I'd forgotten. The prospect of hearing his voice—of speaking to the man who lived with my possibly-not-dead father—made my stomach clench.

A part of me wondered if Luke would even mind if I skipped the call again.

Frowning at myself, I recognised the silliness of my hesitation. This was my job. I made courtesy calls before every delivery. It was what I did.

Yet, I couldn't dispel the mysterious, eerie sense of foreboding that lingered in the back of my mind. The mere thought of making the call to Luke stirred a discomfort in my stomach.

Would he sound different, now that I knew? Now that I'd seen the Facebook profile, the tagged photo of Jamie Greyson standing on that deck?

Would I be able to hear something in his voice—guilt, maybe, or knowledge? Did Luke know that Jamie had been watching me? Was Luke part of it somehow?

The questions spiralled, each one leading to three more.

"Dang! I better do it," I chastised myself, shaking off the unease.

Pressing the call button, I braced myself.

"Hello, Luke speaking," came the immediate response, much to my surprise.

At the sound of his voice, the fine hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

A shiver of nervous anticipation ran down my spine, and my body gave an involuntary shudder. It was the same voice from yesterday—casual, slightly distracted, that faint hint of an accent I couldn't quite place. Australian, but something else underneath.

"Hi, Luke. This is Joel from the courier company. Your delivery is next on my route. I'll be there within the hour," I said, keeping my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

Joel from the courier company. As if that was all I was. As if I wasn't the son of the man he lived with. As if I hadn't spent half the night staring at his Facebook profile, trying to piece together the truth of my own existence.

"Thanks. See you soon," Luke replied in a straightforward manner.

The call ended abruptly.

As the line went dead, I sat there for a moment, phone in hand, trying to shake off the unsettling feeling.

It is just another delivery, I told myself.

But the coincidence of the name, the Facebook search from last night, and now the delivery to Luke Smith again—it all seemed to weave together into something more than mere happenstance.

The truck hummed beneath me as I continued north, past the turnoff to Moonah, past the shopping centres and fast-food restaurants and service stations. The Derwent River glinted occasionally through gaps in the buildings, grey-blue under the winter sky.

Berriedale wasn't far now.

Within the half-hour, I'd be standing on that doorstep again, face to face with Luke Smith. The man who might hold the answers to every question I'd been carrying since Mum's tears in the kitchen two days ago. Since the birth certificate with Jamie Nigel Greyson's name typed in official font.

My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary.

Whatever waited for me at 2 Wallcrest Road, I had a feeling my life was about to change. Again.