Except they never disappear completely. I can never forget about them, however tiny they are. Chatter floats towards me as I round the corner into the drinks aisle.

‘How many should we get? That’s way too much, surely?’

‘Of Red Bull? Or just Coke?’

‘Oh, Red Bull. No one’s going to be sleeping for days now.’

‘I’d get more than that, actually. We need at least three apiece.’

‘When do the shifts change over?’

‘Who knows. Like anyone’s had even half a second to blink properly, let alone figure out the rota.’

I slide in next to the two women talking over multipacks of cans, peering into the gap where the Cokes should be. I’ll need to make at least two trips to refill that shelf.

‘Have you got any more of these out the back?’ I jump as one 203of the women barks at me. ‘We’ll take all the Red Bull we can carry if you bring them out?’

I stare at her, neat and trim in dark office clothes. Is it the middle of the day after all?

‘Come on, Jonas,’ the other one says, tapping a foot as she rattles the basket in her arm. ‘We haven’t got all night.’

‘I’m serious,’ her friend says, looking at me. ‘We have a newsroom army to keep awake for the next few days, months even. And it looks like we’re not the only ones.’

She looks up and down the shelves of soft drinks, almost empty in places where various brands should be.

‘Did you say you wanted Red Bull?’ I ask, reading the ID badge looped round her neck.

‘Gives you wings,’ she says, smiling at me. I reread her badge. Jemima Jonas, Nine News. ‘We’ll need more than wings to get through this news cycle, but it’ll give us a start at least.’

‘Give it up, Jonas,’ the other woman interrupts, yellow hair flying as she shakes her head. ‘We’re late enough as it is.’

‘I’ll bring them out to the tills,’ I say, ducking and turning, chatter fading as I head back to the storeroom. News cycle? Is she on an overnight shift too? I balance sheets of cans as high as I can on to my trolley. But doing what? I clatter back up the aisle to the cash registers, searching the queues of people. It could be the lunchtime rush if it wasn’t pitch-dark outside, air fizzing with banter and gossip.

‘…left messages, loads of them…’ someone says, dislodging a pile of magazines as he waves into the air. ‘They all tried to call from the plane when they knew it was done for…’

‘Unimaginable,’ someone else replies behind him. Are they friends? She’s wearing a ball gown and he’s in gym clothes, bulging sports bag slung over his shoulder. At night?