I open one enough for a peek. Inside is a jumble of cords and electronics and one leather shoe, a brown sneaker-type I would swear was Cole Hann. My toes press uncomfortably to the top of the Converse-style sneakers I got from the shelter—the closest fit I could find when my boots got stolen one of my first nights there. That was before I learned to sleep in anything I wanted to have around the next morning.
I pull out an old flip-style phone from the box and raise a brow.
Quinn shrugs. “As you can see, there is no organization scheme, so to speak, and this stuff has been collecting for years. I think at one time we had a method for what to do with it, but obviously, whatever that was, beyond sending it here, has been lost.”
“I think I get it.”
“The thing is we keep all of this stuff where it was found for about a year. If it’s a condo or room at the Inn or even a ski locker where we can identify a specific guest likely to be the owner, we notify them, but you would be amazed how few people ever come to get anything. Some stuff from the Inn or one of the properties will probably still have a tag relating it to the last guest in the room. We would have contacted those people directly about their lost items before it ever ended up here. But,” he sighs, looking at all the stuff, “a surprisingly large amount of people will let it go. If they don’t claim it, it’s been here long enough Jack says we can do something with it without running afoul of property ownership issues. And we’ve never had anyone ask after it ended up here.” He gestures at a box. “Lots of socks and a box of phone chargers.”
“What do you want me to do with it, exactly?”
“My sister CJ read about airlines doing a warehouse sale with all the left items they have. Unclaimed luggage or what have you. I don’t think we will, unless it’s for charity. Maybe contribute to a community-wide rummage sale? I have thoughts too of a sale every five years or so, some kind of event to get bargain hunters out during the summer. Or, hell, just give it to someone who can use it. We comb through it for coats for the shelter in Mirror Lake and that kinda stuff, but I know some are still here. Whenever there’s a shoe drive, we pick it over. Lots of shoes, but few pairs, unfortunately.
“Anyway, as far as we are concerned, anything is better than letting all this stuff sit abandoned. I think once we know what we have, we will know what to do with it, but it’s getting donated, one way or the other.”
“So, organize it? You want an inventory list? That sort of thing?”
Quinn smiles at me. “I can tell you are used to inventory—you are very good at it at the bar.” He hands me a brand-new tablet in a keyboard case. “CJ set this up.” He gestures to a table set up in the corner like a small office. “You put in the item, and it assigns a bar code and prints a sticker. Slap it on, scan it, identify the item. If it’s too small, bag it and tag the bag. That way we can keep up.”
“Got it.” I smile. Easy enough. I can swing this, Black Diamond, and my side-hustle.
“So, you will need this.” Quinn hands me a brand-new phone.
I pause a moment too long before taking it. My phone is old and cheap, the kind best kept stowed far into a pocket so no one asks questions or notices it struggles to keep a charge. But, other than Quinn or Sydney letting me know about a schedule change, no one calls me, and I have no one to call.
Deny just expects me to show up at the end of the month and pay him. He doesn’t fuck around with calling first.
Quinn’s offering me the kind of phone I would have had if things had gone differently. Right now, that kind of expense is as far away as walking across the moon.
“It’s a work phone because we might need to call you at some strange times or move you from one task to another. Plus, it has the app we use for payroll. You’ll use that to track your hours. While this is the big task, some random thing always needs to be done here or there, so we may pull you off a task at the last minute. Is that going to be a problem?”
Quinn sets the phone down on the table, but I don’t reach for it.
“No, I like to be on my toes.”
“Also.” Quinn hesitates, one of those times his mind is moving too fast and he just caught up. “If you know someone who might want something in here—or, better, need it—don’t tag it. Just give it to them. I would rather it go to use than sit in here for another,” he gives a little shrug, “well, however long it takes to figure out what to do with this stuff.”
“Okay.”
He knows, or at least guesses, the desperate state of my existence. It’s nice of him to put the offer out there. I can’t take him up on anything, though. I might be able to use a coat, but only if I sleep with it on and keep it here if I’m not wearing it.
I want to scream that this me isn’t the real me. I’m not the person who needs all of his kindness just to survive. But I am.
Never mind a few months ago, I was a very different guy.
I worked fucking hard, and I made it.
Twenty-four and I had the world in my hands.
I fuckingmade it.
Then the rug got pulled out from under me, and it has been free-fall ever since. With the ground continually rushing up to meet me.
Now I’m the guy who took the Black Diamond job partly because I would deal with cash. Lots of it. I looked, paid attention, in case I needed fast cash to keep Deny happy and my ass safe. Or in case I needed an exit plan after the seasonal work was gone. Since I haven’t had to do anything shady, I’d like to say maybe my integrity is still in place. But the truth is a lot harsher.
I now know what I am capable of when it comes to my survival, and it isn’t pretty or honorable.
Nope. I’m the guy who just looked at the phone Quinn put down and wondered how much I could sell it for if I had to.
