Bobby - 3/15/2024, 10:19 a.m.
As he approached the door, Bobby could hear rough male voices somewhere inside. He set the duffel bag down, shifted the shoebox to his left hand, and knocked on the flimsy aluminum screen door. The entire frame rattled louder than he’d intended, making him jump.
A gruff voice barked back, “COME IN.”
He pulled the screen door open, grabbed his duffel bag, and turned for one last look at Rick—who gave him a reassuring wave from behind the wheel.
Bobby nodded once and stepped into the house. The door clattered shut behind him, cutting him off from the morning light.
The smell hit him first.
As his eyes adjusted, he saw he was standing in one big, central space—the living room, kitchen, and dining area all combined, though there was no dining table. No walls or dividers, just one wide, dim room.
The furniture was sparse. A gray, tattered couch faced the wall where a flat-screen TV balanced on four milk crates clumsily duct-taped together.
None of the windows had curtains. Instead, someone had taped sheets of newspaper over them to keep out the harsh sunlight, which meant the windows hadn’t been opened in a long time. The air was a thick mix of stale cigarette smoke, marijuana, and sweat.
Most of the sweat smell was coming from one—or both—of the shirtless guys slumped on the couch, video game controllers in their hands.
“ON ME, ON ME. DUDE! WHERE ARE YOU?! FUCK!!”
The guy on the right hurled his controller against the wall, barely missing the TV and leaving a fresh gash beside a dozen older ones. “You’re worthless, man. You know that?” he said to the other guy as he stood, stretched, then turned and spotted Bobby.
“You the new guy?” He sized up Bobby without an ounce of curiosity.
“Uh…yeah. Bobby,” he said, offering his name but not his hand. He took a step forward and noticed that the olive-green carpet underfoot felt sticky—as if it had never been shampooed.
The other guy got up too, and together they came around the side of the couch toward him.
“Chad,” the taller of the two said, offering the name without a handshake or even a nod. “This is Danny,” he added, jabbing a thumb toward his buddy like he was flagging a cab. Danny gave a small, awkward wave and an almost apologetic, “hi.”
Chad was tall and wiry—maybe 6’1” and a buck sixty. Late thirties or early forties, somewhere around Bobby’s age. He had a sharp, pointy face and narrow eyes that reminded Bobby of a serpent. His pale skin was covered in rough, uneven tattoos. He wore nothing except a pair of navy-blue athletic shorts. The sweat smell was definitely his.
Danny was short and stocky—perhaps 5’7” and two hundred pounds—with softer features and a gentler face. Early thirties, he could have passed for a baker if not for the tattoos scattered across his arms that roughened his edges. Shirtless, Danny seemed perfectly unbothered by his belly and sagging chest. He also wore only athletic shorts. His were red.
“MOOSE!” Chad yelled toward the hallway, startling Bobby. “NEW GUY.”
Chad and Danny drifted back to the couch to resume their game. Chad grabbed a controller from the pile scattered on the floor beneath the dented wall.
Bobby heard a door open down the hall to the right, followed by the sluggish, lumbering gait of a bear awoken from hibernation. A hulking figure appeared—broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, and thick through the middle. Late thirties, maybe forty, with a heavy build that suggested he’d once been athletic. His hair was matted on one side, and his eyes were glazed, half-asleep. He was barefoot and wearing nothing but a pair of tight white briefs that dug into the heavy curve of his waist, struggling to contain a pronounced morning erection.
Just when Bobby thought it couldn’t get more uncomfortable, he made every effort not to look.
“Justin,” he said. “Everybody calls me Moose.”
He scratched his stomach as he looked Bobby up and down.
“What are you in for?”
“Uh…in?” Bobby asked, confused.
“Me and Chad was heroin, Danny was booze. What are you in for?”
“Oh. Yeah. Uh…booze, I guess.” Bobby caught on.
“Not a lotta rules here. Weed’s okay, no hard stuff, no alcohol. Our rooms are down the hall there, and yours is that way where the garage used to be. It’s hotter in the summer and colder in the winter, but it’s the rookie room. The washer and dryer are in there too, so you won’t have as much privacy as we do. But we try to remember to knock. We all been here a long time, but if anyone leaves, you graduate to one of the other rooms.”
Moose gave the whole rundown with a flat, practiced tone, already drifting toward the kitchen. He grabbed a large mixing bowl, poured what looked like nearly a full box of generic, sugary kids’ cereal into it, then drowned it in milk. He fished a big spoon out of the sink and wiped it off on the side of his briefs. The erection was gone, and Bobby hated himself for being forced to notice.
“You can head on in that way. Let me know if you need anything.”
Moose disappeared into his room, and Bobby heard the door slam behind him.
Bobby’s room was through a doorway off the kitchen, a converted single-car garage that had later become an office, and now a claustrophobic bedroom that still looked like neither. He descended the two uneven steps from the kitchen and closed the door behind him—relieved to be away from the other three. And the stench. The air in here felt stagnant, but at least the smell didn’t permeate the walls. This room smelled of disinfectant, as though the previous occupant had attempted a respectable cleaning before leaving.
There was no longer a garage door; it had been sealed shut. A small window faced into the backyard. The floor was concrete, covered by a large area rug to make the space slightly more livable. The ceiling felt too low, with an old acoustic drop ceiling of square tiles set in a metallic grid and yellowed with time.
A naked twin bed sat against one wall with an unopened pillow—still in its plastic wrapping—and a package of sheets sitting on top. They were the only things in the house that appeared new. An armoire that could have once been a toolshed stood against the opposite wall. Bobby opened it to find a row of wire hangers and three drawers below. The only other furniture was a basic unfinished wooden desk and a metal folding chair.
An old washer and dryer sat against the sealed external wall. A box of powdered detergent, a bottle of bleach, and a pile of white cleaning towels sat on the floor beside them. Other than that, the room was empty.
Bobby set his duffel bag and shoebox on the bed and checked the door to the kitchen, noting there was no lock. He searched the room for a place where he might hide his belongings from prying eyes and wandering hands. The air conditioning kicked in, and a panel of the drop ceiling fluttered—revealing space above.
He pulled the metal folding chair toward the middle of the room and stood on top, but his fingers could barely graze the tiles. He climbed down, removed his shoes, and stood on top of the bed instead. From this height, he could comfortably push the tiles aside, and there seemed to be enough room to hide the shoebox. He pushed a tile up and to the side, hoisting the shoebox into the gap and balancing it on the metal grid so it wouldn’t sag against the flimsy tiles.
As he went to slide the tile back into place, his knuckles hit something hard and metallic. He wasn’t tall enough to see, but he felt around in the dusty space until his hand closed around something cold and cylindrical. He got a grip on it and lowered it into the room with him.
It wasn’t heavy—just a long tube coated in an eternity of dust. Bobby sneezed three times in succession, dust erupting in all directions. He set the tube on the concrete floor, trying to keep the grime off the rug. He grabbed a cleaning towel from beside the washer and used it to wipe away most of the dust.
The tube had a screw-top lid like a thermos. It was fixed tightly, but with some pressure he managed to twist it open. He peered inside and saw nothing, but when he reached in, his fingers brushed a rolled piece of thick paper—more like parchment. He coaxed it out carefully.
He unrolled the parchment across the desk and stared.
It took nearly thirty seconds before he realized he was holding his breath. When the air finally tore back into his lungs, it came in a sharp gasp.
He glanced toward the kitchen door—instinctive, guilty—like he’d stumbled onto something more secret and precious than the contents of his shoebox. His palms were damp. Sweat prickled across his forehead.
This couldn’t possibly be real.
Could it?
But if it was…
It would change everything.
