Louise’s voice broke.
“Those are my husband’s things.”
The worker lowered the cutters.
Ray frowned at him.
“Mike.”
Mike looked uncomfortable.
“Maybe we can give her five minutes.”
Ray stared.
“We’ve already given her fifteen.”
Louise said:
“He’s gone.”
Ray looked at her.
“My husband.”
She swallowed.
“Harold died four years ago.”
“Those boxes are almost everything I kept.”
“We sold the house.”
“I moved into an apartment.”
“I couldn’t keep all of it with me.”
She touched the metal door.
“There’s a trunk in there he built with his own hands.”
“His tools.”
“Our wedding photographs.”
“Christmas ornaments.”
“Letters.”
Ray exhaled slowly.
For one second Louise thought she had reached him.
Then he said:
“Then you should have paid for the unit.”
The words hit harder than she expected.
Louise stepped backward.
Mike looked down.
Ray pointed to the notice.
“Read it.”
“Three months overdue.”
“Every notice ignored.”
“That paper says you owe $428.17 including fees.”
Louise stared at the number.
“I don’t.”
Ray turned to Mike.
“Cut it.”
The bolt cutters closed around Harold’s brass lock.
Louise covered her mouth.
The handles came together.
Metal snapped.
The lock fell onto the pavement.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Louise looked at it lying near Ray’s shoe.
Something about the small sound of metal hitting concrete made the situation suddenly real.
The unit was no longer secure.
Harold’s lock was broken.
Ray lifted the door.
Warm air rolled out.
Dust.
Cardboard.
Cedar.
The smell struck Louise immediately.
She had not opened the unit in almost six months.
Inside, boxes stood neatly along both walls.
Harold had taught her how to stack them.
Heavy on bottom.
Photographs high.
Nothing against the exterior wall.
A wooden trunk sat near the back.
Dark oak.
Brass corners.
Handmade handles.
Louise saw it and whispered:
“That one.”
Ray looked at her.
“What?”
“That trunk.”
She pointed.
“Harold built it for our first house.”
“He was twenty-six.”
“He couldn’t afford furniture.”
“So he made things.”
Ray pulled a roll of auction tags from his pocket.
“That doesn’t change the account.”
Louise watched him step into the unit.
“No.”
“Please.”
He peeled the first red tag.
AUCTION INVENTORY.
“Don’t touch anything.”
Ray placed the label on a cardboard box.
Louise moved forward.
Mike stepped sideways but did not block her.
“Sir.”
A new voice came from the neighboring unit.
Everyone turned.
An older man stood beneath the open door of unit 172.
He wore jeans, a faded Ohio State T-shirt, and reading glasses hanging from a cord around his neck.
A stack of file folders rested on a folding table behind him.
His name was Tom Bennett.
He had been cleaning out his own storage unit since eight that morning.
Tom looked at Ray.
“Something here doesn’t add up.”
Ray stared.
“This isn’t your business.”
Tom nodded toward Louise’s bank statements.
“Maybe not.”
“But I’ve been listening for ten minutes.”
“She has automatic withdrawals.”
“You have a delinquent account.”