Claybourne

Janine's medical supplies attract more interest than usual. Medication goes missing, moods shift without explanation, and the district nurse starts to wonder whether the town's emotional weather is entirely organic.

Control requires a majority, whether of shares, of votes, or of something else entirely. Frank is doing arithmetic. Someone up at the station is doing a different kind of calculation altogether.

Relationships in Claybourne curdle and sweeten in equal measure. A dinner becomes a confrontation. A confrontation becomes a confession. The hotel kitchen has never seen this much drama, and that's saying something.

Digital money moves through satellite connections in ways it shouldn't. Clive traces a transaction that leads somewhere unexpected. In a town where the phones don't work properly, the money seems to flow just fine.

Life at the Claybourne Hotel takes a surreal turn. Karen navigates the demands of guests, the expectations of Frank, and an increasingly strange set of occurrences on the upper floors. Hospitality has its limits.

Thompson makes the comparison out loud, and nobody laughs. The boundary between the explicable and the impossible has been thinning since he arrived. Clive suggests that the boundary might be deliberate.

The hotel pub does a roaring trade on a night when everyone in town seems to need a drink. Mata is three beers past wisdom. Frank is generous with the pour. Tongues loosen, and truths slip out sideways.

The largest insect in the world is native to New Zealand, armoured, ancient, and surprisingly gentle. A weta in the wrong place becomes an omen, or a message, depending on who you ask. Edith is not asking.