Converge

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This is the beginning. In the ocean-blue dawn we begin with the moment before the eyes adjust after blinking; the moment after the eyelids shut and open and light meets the retinas again.

Quiet except for the tick of the still-cooling engine, both inside the car and out.

Clears throat. Clears throat again and so he turns sleepily to look.

– What?

– I'm getting someone's Wi-Fi. I'm—

Blinks.

– Thought you were about to say something.

– No. No, had fish last night. One bone, that's it. Right at the end.

Touches his throat, swallows hard.

– Fucken. Got stuck. Feels like it's still there.

Looks up from his phone.

– You know it was invented here?

– What?

– Australian.

– Wi-Fi?

No response. Attention has slipped, shifted, is outside now, across the road. So he looks too. Puts the phone in the glovebox; it's him.

– That him?

– That’s him.

– You sure?

– It's him. That’s him.

A rising; everything shifts. See him, sum him up in a moment of seeing. Slim, loose in his strides, sloppy. Unknowing. Know how this will go.

The shop lights up, the Allfoods sign blinks on like something from another era. He pulls the door across, open.

An exchange of glances, a gripping of tools: sledgehammer, knife. Fish knife. Slap of their car doors behind them. Shuffle across the road, converge on the shop.

This is the word for it, converge.