4338.206 · July 25, 2018 AD
Two Stores, Two Trails
Exhaustion is a luxury. So is sleep. So is the ordinary act of signing for groceries without wondering if your name on that screen is another thread in a net slowly tightening. Luke knows how to move bodies, swap trucks, hide cash beneath floorboards. What he doesn't know is how to stop feeling watched. The neighbour across the street waters his lawn every afternoon. Today, that feels like a threat. Tomorrow, it might be proof.
The doorbell rings. Luke hasn't slept. His body aches from hauling shelving through the Portal, his mind spirals with paranoia, and the couch cushions have barely begun to cradle him when the Coles truck arrives. Then Woolworths. Two separate orders, two separate stores—deliberate, calculated, designed to avoid patterns that might raise questions later.
He ferries bags through the Portal, deposits them for Paul, calls into the emptiness of Clivilius and waits for a response. The work is mundane. The stakes are not.
And then there's Terry.
The elderly neighbour stands across the street, hose in hand, watering a lawn that doesn't need it. His gaze wanders—to the truck, to Luke, to the house where things have been happening that defy explanation. Luke waves. Terry waves back. Normal. Ordinary. Except Luke can't stop wondering: what has Terry already seen? The trucks coming and going? The flicker of colour through the window? The blood on the driveway?
The days of moving freely are over. Stealth is no longer optional.
And just as exhaustion finally claims him, a name tears through: Glenda. Dr. De Bruyn. Jamie's wound.
