"Next please," the woman at the special service counter of the large hardware store called out, her voice echoing slightly in the cavernous, dimly lit space filled with the scent of sawdust and metal. The fluorescent lights above flickered, casting an industrial glow over the aisles of tools and materials that stretched out behind me.

Stepping forward, I approached the counter, my sneakers scuffing against the concrete floor. "Hi," I began, trying to inject a note of friendliness into my voice. "I'm after some information on pouring concrete, please." I clasped my hands in front of me.

"Just a minute," the woman replied, her attention already drifting to the computer beside her. She began typing away furiously, her fingers a blur against the keys. I watched, a mixture of impatience and anticipation churning in my stomach. "There we go," she said after a moment, turning the screen in my direction with a flourish.

I leaned in, squinting at the screen, but found myself hesitating. I didn't even bother to read the top line. What do I care for concrete, really? It was a means to an end, a necessary component of Luke’s grand design. "Great. Can I get that printed please?" I asked, forcing a smile, though it felt like stretching a thin veneer over my frustration.

"We don't do printing," the woman replied bluntly, her voice flat, as if she'd had this conversation a thousand times before.

"Oh, come on! It's what, two pages?" I retorted, my patience fraying. I could feel my cheeks flush with irritation, the absurdity of the situation gnawing at me.

"Company policy," she replied with a shrug and a turned-up nose, as if to signify the end of the discussion. Her indifference stung, a sharp contrast to the burning stubbornness I felt to progress regardless.

"Well, that's a shit policy. Look, I'll even pay you to—" My protest was cut short as a young man stepped in, his presence like a sudden breeze in the stifling atmosphere of the store.

"Just print the damn pages for her, Lara. It'll take you two seconds," he told her, his voice firm yet carrying an undercurrent of warmth. His intervention felt like a lifeline, a moment of unexpected solidarity in the face of bureaucratic indifference.

Lara released a loud, defiant huff, resonating through the sterile air of the store like a thunderclap in the quiet. But before I could muster a retort, her hand shot to the left, her movements sharp and brusque. She snatched several pages from the nearby printer with an air of resigned irritation and pushed them across the counter in my direction. The papers slid towards me, a tangible result of my persistence and, unexpectedly, Jake's intervention.

Eyes narrowing at the woman, not just in anger but also in a silent promise of remembered grievances, I collected the papers. Turning my attention to the man who had stepped into the fray, I felt a mix of gratitude and embarrassment. "Thank you," I said, my voice carrying a note of genuine appreciation. I paused momentarily as my eyes flicked to his name tag, seeking out the name of my unexpected ally. "Jake," I finished, smoothing over the moment with as much grace as I could muster.

"No problem," replied Jake, his voice light, tinged with amusement. "Enjoy your concrete," he said, his smile kind, reaching his eyes and softening the harsh fluorescent light that framed him.

I didn't mean to, truly. The guy was nice, genuinely so, but my eyes rolled instinctively anyway. "Yeah," I replied, the word laced with a lack of enthusiasm that belied my internal appreciation. Before turning to leave, I gave Lara one last glare, a silent parting shot that said more than words ever could.

"Rude bitch," I heard Lara mutter under her breath as I walked away, her voice low but unmistakably venomous. The words, meant to wound, only served to tighten my grip on the papers. My fist clenched tighter, the edges of the paper crumpling under the pressure

But no, I reminded myself, I wasn't going to give the cranky woman the satisfaction of another round, of seeing me unravel. With every step I took away from the counter, I forced myself to breathe, to unclench my fist and smooth out the papers, each step a conscious effort to shed the negativity that attempted to cling to me like a second skin.

I soon found myself navigating through an aisle crammed with an extensive array of shelving solutions, each one promising organisation and ease, a stark contrast to the disarray of my current search for Gladys. The shelves loomed large around me, casting long shadows that seemed to mirror my growing concern. But amidst the metal and wood, there was no sign of Gladys. I frowned to myself, a crease forming between my brows. Surely, I hadn't taken that much longer than her. The thought nagged at me, an unwelcome guest in my mind.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice slicing through the relative quiet. I approached another servicewoman who was in the midst of changing over several price tags, her movements methodical and precise. She paused at my interruption, turning towards me with a look of open curiosity.

"How can I help you?" the young woman asked, her tone kind and inviting. There was a genuineness to her demeanour that eased the tightness in my chest, a welcome change from my previous encounter.

"I'm looking for my sister. I was supposed to meet her here to get an assortment of shelves," I explained, my voice tinged with a mix of hope and frustration. The details of our plan, so meticulously arranged, now seemed to be unravelling at the edges.

"About this high, with reddish-brown hair down to here?" asked Melissa, her name badge glinting under the store's fluorescent lights. She used her hands to describe Gladys's height and the length of her hair quite accurately, painting a picture in the air between us.

"That'd be her," I replied, a smile breaking through my concern. The relief was immediate, warming me from the inside out. At least it sounded like Gladys had actually been here, a small victory in the grand scheme of things.

Melissa laughed softly, a sound that seemed to carry a lightness, a shared moment of amusement in the otherwise mundane setting. "She had quite a large order. Jarod went to help her take it outside," she explained, her smile broadening.

No surprises there, I thought, an internal chuckle breaking through my earlier annoyance. "Thank you, Melissa," I said, my gratitude genuine. Her assistance, so readily given, was a beacon of helpfulness in the vast sea of shelves and aisles.

With a renewed sense of direction, I headed towards the exit, the information Melissa provided guiding me. The weight of my earlier irritation began to lift, replaced by the anticipation of reuniting with Gladys.

I stalked across the asphalt carpark in a huff, the sound of my footsteps harsh against the sprawling expanse. Near the far end of the carpark, I could see Gladys thanking a young man—whom I assumed must be Jarod—before opening the driver's side door of the truck.

"Gladys!" I called out, my voice cutting through the cool air, as I ran the last distance across the car park. My heart was pounding, not just from the run, but from a mix of frustration and the pressing need to confront her before she could take control of the truck.

"Did you get it?" asked Gladys, her voice betraying a hint of excitement, oblivious to the storm brewing within me.

"You didn't have to leave me there!" I cried, waving the crumpled paper in my hand like a flag of my frustration. The paper, once a symbol of progress, now felt like a testament to my annoyance.

"I didn't leave you there," replied Gladys, her tone defensive as she climbed into the front seat. "Jarod offered to help," she added, her words meant to soothe but only fuelling my irritation. And then, the door closed, a definitive sound that seemed to echo my thwarted intentions.

I turned my back to my sister, a silent protest. Gladys knew I wanted to be the driver! It was more than just a position; it was about control, about being the one to navigate us through this venture, literally and metaphorically.

A thin, tall man caught my attention from across the car park, pulling me out of my frustrated thoughts. He was lurking in the shadows near the corner of the building, his presence ominous and unsettling. I was certain he had been watching us, the way his posture was angled, the intentness that seemed to emanate from him. A cold shiver ran down my spine, a primal reaction to the perceived threat. I looked away, trying to dismiss the unease that clung to me, but from the corner of my eye, I could see he was still watching, a silent observer to our discord.

"You getting in then?" Gladys leaned out the window and asked, her voice breaking through my apprehension.

Just then, a large, white van stopped behind us, momentarily blocking my view of the building's corner while the driver waited for a nearby car to reverse. It didn't stop for long, but when the van moved along, my heart skipped a beat—the watcher was gone. Vanished as if he had never been there, leaving a lingering question of his intentions.

Forgetting about my stubbornness to drive, the urgency of the situation propelling me forward, I opened the passenger side door and climbed inside. "Let's get out of here," I ordered Gladys, my voice carrying an edge of command. I closed the door firmly and locked it, a small barrier against the unease that the stranger had instilled in me.

The engine started with a clunky rattle, a reminder of the truck's age and the journeys it had weathered. As Gladys manoeuvred us through the carpark, I couldn't shake off the feeling of being watched, the image of the lurking figure etched into my memory.

My phone beeped quietly, a subtle intrusion into the tense atmosphere of the truck. With a sense of foreboding, I pulled it from my pocket. The message displayed was succinct, its brevity doing nothing to ease the sudden knot in my stomach.

Leigh: Change in plans. Package on your bed – needs delivery. You'll get address soon.

"No!" I said loudly, the word bursting from me with more force than I intended. Gladys, who had been navigating the truck towards the exit intersection, glanced at me, her expression a mix of surprise and irritation. "I need to go home," I told her bluntly, the urgency of the situation rendering me incapable of softening the demand.

Gladys glared solidly at me, her eyes sharp and questioning, clearly not appreciating the sudden change. Ignoring the honk of the horn from the car approaching from behind, she cut across the driver's path with a decisiveness that was both alarming and impressive, and took the truck left, away from our original direction.

As we veered onto the new path, I felt another vibration from the phone in my hands, which I clutched even tighter, as if the device were a lifeline in the swirling uncertainty that had suddenly enveloped me.

Slowly, with a reluctance born of apprehension, I glanced down at the new message, the digits on the screen searing themselves into my memory.

Leigh: 655 Main Road Berriedale @ 7.15pm