Unit 2, 7, 3. The auctioneer announced monotonously. Six months delinquent, owner deceased, no heirs located. Starting bid, $50.
The roll-up door was raised halfway, revealing what appeared to be water-damaged boxes, old furniture, and stacks of magazines. Nothing special. The professional buyers didn’t even bother to look closely.
$50, the auctioneer repeated. Do I have 50? Something made Taylor step forward. $50, she said, her voice stronger than she felt.
The auctioneer blinked, surprised to hear a bid for such an unpromising unit. $50 going once, twice. Sold to the lady in the green jacket.
Mama, what did you do? Her daughter whispered urgently. What had she done? Spent over half their savings on what looked like garbage. Taylor’s stomach clenched as she handed over the money and received a padlock key and a clipboard to sign.
You have 48 hours to clear it out, the facility manager informed her brusquely. Anything left after that becomes property of Riverside. As the crowd moved to the next unit, Taylor and Iris stood alone before their purchase.
Iris peered inside, her initial excitement fading. It’s just old stuff, she said. Let’s take a closer look, Taylor suggested.
The smell hit them first. Mildew and abandonment. The musty odor of paper left too long in dampness.
Inside, the unit was about 10 feet by 10 feet, crammed with the detritus of someone’s forgotten life. Cardboard boxes disintegrated at a touch, spilling waterlogged books. A broken dresser listed to one side, missing two drawers.
Stacks of National Geographic magazines from the 1,970 seconds and 80 seconds formed yellow towers along one wall. In the corner stood an old sewing machine, its metal parts rusted solid. Mama? Iris looked up.
That was T.W. Akes of food money. Why would you waste it on garbage? I… I don’t know, baby. I just had a feeling.
Iris kicked at a moldy bag of clothes. We could have bought real food, or a new blanket, or medicine if I get sick again. I’m sorry, she whispered, fighting back tears.
They stood in silence amid the ruined possessions of a stranger, the weight of Taylor’s error hanging between them. Maybe we can still find something to sell, Taylor suggested. Let’s at least look through it all before we give up.
Reluctantly, Iris nodded. They began sorting through the unit’s contents methodically. The clothes were worthless, moth-eaten, and moldy.
The magazines might have had value to a collector if they hadn’t been water-damaged. The dresser fell apart completely when Taylor tried to move it. Look, Mama, Iris called, holding up a small glass paperweight with a preserved butterfly inside.
This is pretty. Someone might buy it. Good eyes, sweetheart.
Put it in the keep pile. Their keep pile remained pathetically small. The paperweight, a set of relatively intact ceramic mugs, a silver-plated picture frame, tarnished but salvageable.
Nothing that would recoup even a fraction of their fifty dollars. As the afternoon wore on, frustration and hunger gnawed at them both. Taylor had packed a single peanut butter sandwich, which they shared sitting on the concrete floor of the unit.
We should go soon, Taylor said, checking the time on her phone. What about all this stuff? Iris asked. We’ll take what we can carry.
Maybe come back tomorrow for another look. As Taylor gathered their meager treasures into a plastic bag, something caught her eye. The unit’s back wall had water stains in an unusual pattern, straight lines, geometric, not natural water damage, which would spread organically.
Curious, she moved closer, pushing aside a stack of magazines. The wall was covered in cheap wood paneling, common in the one thousand nine hundred and seventy seconds, but the water stains followed the seams of the panels with strange precision. Taylor pressed her hand against the paneling.
It moved slightly. Iris, she called softly, come here. Together they examined the wall.
Taylor ran her fingers along the edge of a panel and felt a slight gap. She dug her fingernails in and pulled gently. The panel shifted, revealing that it wasn’t attached to a solid wall at all.
It’s a false wall, she breathed, excitement rising. They cleared the area. Then Taylor pulled harder on the loose panel.
It came away with a crack of aged adhesive, revealing a narrow space behind, perhaps two feet deep. It’s a secret place, Iris whispered, like in books. Taylor reached into the dark space, her heart pounding.
Her hand touched something solid, a metal box. She pulled it out carefully. It was a toolbox, heavy and expensive looking, covered in dust but with three sturdy locks intact.
What else is in there? Iris asked. Taylor reached again and withdrew a large manila envelope, sealed with red wax. In spidery handwriting across the front were the words, For whoever finds this, I’m sorry I didn’t have the courage.
One more reach produced a small wooden box, intricately carved, about the size of a paperback book. Taylor set their discoveries on the floor, staring at them in disbelief. Open them, Iris urged.
Taylor tried the toolbox first. The locks were solid, requiring keys they didn’t have. The wooden box, however, opened easily.
Inside were six black and white photographs, carefully preserved in plastic sleeves. They showed a man in his thirties or early forties with kind eyes and a confident smile. In one, he stood proudly in front of a building Taylor recognized with a shock, the Brennan Textile Mill, their current shelter.
He had his arm around a younger woman. Taylor turned the photo over and read the handwritten caption, Opening Day, One Thousand, Nine Hundred and Sixty-Two. We were going to change the world, Tommy…
