Inventory

A wool glove on a sticky counter. A contract on a warped desk. Everything has a price tag.

The scanner made a noise like a dying bird.

*Beep.*

Jack stared at the can of kidney beans in his hand. The label was peeling at the corner, a little flap of paper that begged to be ripped off. He resisted the urge. He set the can down on the metal shelf, the sound of tin against steel ringing dull and flat in the empty aisle.

"Missed one," Miles said.

Jack didn't look up. He reached for the next can. Creamed corn. Dust coated the lid, a fine grey fur that stuck to the sweat on his fingertips.

"I said, you missed one."

Miles was sitting on the counter by the register, legs swinging. He held his own scanner like a pistol, aiming it lazily at the rows of cigarettes behind the glass. He wasn't scanning anything. He was just holding the trigger down, letting the red laser line dance over the foil packs.

"I heard you," Jack mumbled. He wiped the creamed corn can on his apron. The fabric was stiff with old spills.

"System says we got fourteen units of the beans," Miles droned, looking at the small screen of his device. "You only counted thirteen. That’s shrink, Jackie boy. That’s loss prevention coming down on our necks."

"It's one can, Miles."

"One can here. One can there. Pretty soon the whole economy collapses." Miles aimed the scanner at Jack's head. The red line slashed across Jack's eyes, blinding him for a split second. "Beep. Item not found. Value: Zero."

Jack turned away, blinking spots from his vision. He crouched down to get to the bottom shelf. His knees popped, a wet, grinding sound that made him feel eighty years old instead of twenty-three. The floor down here was a landscape of neglected filth. Black scuff marks from boots, dried sticky spots that had turned into glue traps for dust bunnies, and the occasional dead fly.

He hated inventory nights. It wasn't just the work. It was the quantification of it all. Counting the garbage that people put in their bodies. Tallying up the net worth of a place that smelled like floor cleaner and despair. It forced him to look at the sheer volume of stuff that existed just to be consumed and excreted.

And it was cold. The automatic door at the front was stuck again, jammed open about three inches. A constant, razor-thin draft of sub-zero air sliced through the store, warring with the heater that rattled in the ceiling. The result wasn't a comfortable medium; it was a localized weather system where his feet were freezing and his neck was sweating.

He reached for a jar of pickles.

"So," Miles said, the boredom stretching the vowel into a yawn. "You gonna tell me about the glove?"

Jack froze. His hand tightened around the glass jar.

"What glove?"

"The one sitting on the counter next to the beef jerky. The one you've been staring at for the last two hours like it's a holy relic." Miles leaned forward, the scanner dangling from his finger by its wrist strap. "Little grey wool thing. Looks fancy. Smells like..." He picked it up with two fingers, sniffing it dramatically. "Lavender? And turpentine?"

"Put it down, Miles."

"Ooh. Touchy." Miles dropped the glove back onto the counter. It landed with a soft, muted thump, looking painfully out of place next to the neon wrappers of the Slim Jims. "Let me guess. The gallery girl?"

Jack stood up. The blood rushed from his head, making the fluorescent lights pulse. "Her name is Debbie. And it’s not... it’s not like that."

"Right. It's not like that. You just happen to have her glove. Did you steal it? Please tell me you didn't steal it, Jack. That's serial killer behavior. That's Chapter One in the manifest."

"She dropped it," Jack said, his voice low. He picked up the clipboard and jammed the pen against the paper, making a mark that tore through the page. "On the bus. Yesterday. I just picked it up."

"And kept it. For twenty-four hours."

"I'm going to return it."

"Uh-huh. You're going to march into that fancy brick building with the pictures on the wall that cost more than my kidney, and you're going to say, 'Here you go, m'lady.' And she's going to fall into your arms and whisper, 'Oh, thank you, brave convenience store clerk, take me away from this life of art and wine.'"

Miles laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. It was a dry, hacking noise that sounded like a car trying to start in the cold. He aimed the scanner at the glove.

*Beep.*

"Error," Miles said. "Item not in inventory. No value."

Jack walked over to the counter. He moved with a heavy, plodding gait, the heels of his boots dragging. He snatched the glove off the Formica. The wool was soft, surprisingly heavy. It felt real in a way that nothing else in this store did. It didn't crinkle. It didn't shine. It just was.

He shoved it into his back pocket.

"She's just a person, Miles."

"She's a person who pays rent in the District," Miles countered, leaning back against the cigarette rack. "We're people who sell lottery tickets to grandmas who can't afford them. Different species. Ecological separation."

The wind howled outside, a high-pitched shriek that rattled the plate glass windows. Snow skittered across the pavement like dry sand.

The bell above the door chimed.

Jack and Miles both looked up. It was late for customers. The 2:00 AM rush of drunks had passed, and the 5:00 AM rush of construction workers hadn't started. This was the dead zone.

A man walked in. He didn't look like a local. He was wearing a heavy parka, but it was clean. Too clean. The fur on the hood was fluffy and white, not matted and grey like everyone else's. He wore insulated work boots that looked like they’d never stepped in a puddle of slush. He was holding a clipboard, thick with papers.

He stomped his feet on the mat, knocking off snow that wasn't there.

"Coffee?" the man asked. His voice was loud, booming. It filled the small space, pushing against the hum of the refrigerators.

"Fresh pot's brewing," Miles lied. The pot on the burner had been there since midnight.

The man nodded and walked over to the coffee station. He poured a cup of the black sludge, adding four packets of sugar and three creamers. He stirred it with a wooden stick, taking his time, looking around the store with eyes that evaluated rather than observed.

He walked to the counter. He didn't buy the coffee. He set it down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the sticky surface.

"Quiet night," the man said.

"It's Tuesday," Miles said. "Or Wednesday. I lost track."

The man smiled. It was a practiced smile, showing teeth that were straight and white. "You boys look like you're working hard."

"Hardly working," Miles said automatically.

Jack stayed back near the aisle of canned vegetables. He didn't like this guy. He smelled like pine air freshener and new car leather.

"I'm looking for guys who aren't afraid of a little hard work," the man said. He pulled a business card from his pocket and slid it across the counter. It didn't have a logo. just a name—**SULLIVAN**—and a phone number.

"We're hiring," the man continued, his eyes flicking to Jack in the aisle. "Remote work. Up north. Past Thompson. Logging support. Camp maintenance. That sort of thing."

Miles picked up the card, flipping it over. "Remote, huh? How remote?"

"Helicopter in, helicopter out," Sullivan said. "Three weeks on, one week off. Food and lodging provided. Pay is... significant."

He named a figure.

Jack felt his breath hitch. It was more money in a month than he made in six. It was enough to pay off the credit card. Enough to fix the radiator in the apartment. Enough to breathe.

"What's the catch?" Jack asked. He stepped out of the aisle, the scanner heavy in his hand.

Sullivan turned to him. The smile didn't waver, but the eyes got colder. "No catch, son. It's just hard work. Cold work. Not for everyone. You're out in the elements. Equipment is heavy. Chainsaws, skidders. Accidents happen if you're not careful. But if you've got a good head on your shoulders..." He shrugged. "You can clear your debts in a season."

*Clear your debts.*

The words hung in the air, mixing with the smell of the burnt coffee. Jack looked at the man's hands. They were smooth. This man didn't run the chainsaws. He just hired the bodies that did.

"I've got a job," Jack said.

Sullivan looked around the Stop-N-Go. He looked at the flickering light above the slushie machine. He looked at the mop bucket in the corner with the grey water. He looked at Miles, who was trying to balance the scanner on his nose.

"Sure," Sullivan said. "You got a job."

He tapped the card on the counter.

"Bus leaves Friday at noon from the depot. If you want a seat, call the number."

Sullivan picked up his coffee, took a sip, grimaced, and put it back down.

"Stay warm, boys."

He walked out. The automatic door shuddered, stuck, then groaned open wider before slamming shut. The draft swirled around Jack's ankles.

Jack stared at the card.

"Three weeks on, one week off," Miles mused. "Sounds like prison with a paycheck."

"It's good money," Jack said. He didn't know why he was defending it.

"It's blood money, Jackie," Miles said, finally scanning a pack of gum. *Beep.* "My cousin went up for a gig like that. Came back minus two toes and with a cough that sounds like a death rattle. They don't pay you for the work. They pay you for the risk that a tree snaps and turns you into paste."

Jack walked over and picked up the card. The paper stock was thick. Expensive.

He thought about the envelope on his kitchen table. The final notice from the utility company. He thought about the look on his mother's face when she opened the fridge and saw nothing but condiments.

He put the card in his pocket. Right next to the glove.

"I'm taking my break," Jack said.

"You just had a break."

"I'm taking another one."

Jack grabbed his parka from the hook in the back room. He zipped it up to his chin. He needed air. He needed to get away from the hum of the coolers and the red eye of the scanner.

"Bring me back a donut," Miles called out as Jack pushed through the door.

***

The gallery smelled of damp plaster and expensive perfume, a combination that made Debbie’s stomach turn.

She sat behind the desk—a slab of reclaimed barn wood that cost more than her car—and tried to keep her hands from shaking. Across from her sat Mr. Grieves.

Mr. Grieves was a shape of a man. Everything about him was round and soft, from his shoulders to his knees, but his eyes were hard little beads of flint. He was wearing a grey suit that seemed to absorb the dim light of the gallery.

"It’s a generous offer, Ms. Miller," Grieves said. His voice was soft, like he was delivering bad news to a patient. "Considering the... liabilities."

He gestured vaguely at the ceiling.

Debbie didn't look up. She knew what was there. A water stain the size of a continent, spreading slowly from the corner above the abstract expressionist piece. A bucket sat on the floor, catching the steady *drip-drip-drip* that was the soundtrack to her life.

"The building has good bones," Debbie said. Her voice sounded too loud in the empty space.