The dripping sound started around three in the morning.
Ethan had his blanket wrapped around his neck, trying to pretend the sharp pt-pt-pt hitting the plastic bucket near his closet was just part of a dream. By six, the bucket was half full of murky brown water that smelled like wet plaster and old attic dust.
He stood in his kitchen with his eyes half-open, watching the small circle of wet drywall expand on the ceiling. Every few seconds, a fat drop would gather, stretch into a point, and fall.
"Unbelievable," he muttered, scratching a patch of dry skin behind his left ear.
He picked up his phone to text his landlord, Mr. Gable, but remembered Mr. Gable didn't check his phone before noon on Fridays because he went to some morning bowling league. So Ethan just shoved the phone back into his jeans pocket, grabbed his bag, and left the bucket where it was.
The air outside felt raw and damp. The sky wasn't raining anymore, but the fog was so thick you couldn't see the top of the railway bridge two streets over.
When Ethan reached the record shop at seven-forty, the front door gave its usual hideous screech, but nobody was inside yet. He flipped the light switches behind the counter. One of the long fluorescent tubes near the back flickered twice, buzzed like a angry wasp, and went dead.
"Great. Fantastic," Ethan said to the empty room.
He set his bag down on the floor, kicked off his wet shoes, and put on the worn-out brown canvas loafers he kept under the counter for work. His right sock had a hole near the big toe, which he only realized when his foot hit the cold linoleum floor.
By eight-fifteen, Leo dragged himself through the front entrance, carrying a paper tray with two large coffee cups from the place near the bus stop.
"Don't drink the one on the left," Leo said, dropping the tray onto the glass display case with a heavy sigh. "The lady behind the counter spilled some fake hazelnut syrup in it by accident, so I had her put three extra espresso shots in to drown out the taste. It tastes like burned rubber."
Ethan picked up the right cup without asking. "Did you bring the receipts from Wednesday's register audit?"
"Uh. Yeah. Probably." Leo dug through his jacket pockets, pulling out a crumpled gas receipt, a half-eaten wrapper from a chocolate bar, and a blue ink pen with no cap. "Wait. No. I think I left them on my kitchen counter next to my toaster."
"Mr. Henderson's coming in at nine, Leo."
"He won't care," Leo said, taking a massive gulp from the burned-rubber coffee. He winced instantly, his eyes watering. "Man, that is awful. So anyway, you know that guy Dave who dropped off the Technics player?"
"Yeah. What about him?"
"He called me last night at like ten. Said his brother has an entire crate of old Japanese heavy metal pressings sitting in a garage in New Jersey. Said he'd sell the whole box for a hundred bucks if we picked it up this weekend."
Ethan frowned, taking a careful sip of his black coffee. It was lukewarm and bitter, but at least it didn't taste like fake hazelnut. "What's the catch? Nobody sells Japanese metal pressings for a hundred bucks unless they're water-damaged or warped."
"He said some of them don't have covers," Leo admitted, leaning his hip against the register. "And maybe a cat slept on them for a couple years. But still. A hundred bucks."
Before Ethan could point out that cat hair in vinyl grooves took hours to clean with alcohol and a fine brush, the bell above the door rattled—or tried to, making a dry scratching noise instead.
Maya walked in, wearing a oversized grey hooded sweatshirt under a dark denim jacket. Her hands were shoved deep into her jacket pockets, and she was carrying a brown paper bakery bag held shut with a strip of blue masking tape.
"Morning, losers," she said, letting the door slam behind her.
"Did you bring the cookies?" Leo asked instantly, stepping around the counter like a dog that heard a food wrapper.
"I brought three," Maya said, sliding the bag onto the glass. "Sarah made them extra large because she felt bad about your back, Ethan. Don't let Leo eat them all."
"I'm right here," Leo said. "I have feelings."
"You have an appetite, not feelings," Maya said, turning toward Ethan. She stopped, looking at his face for a second. "What happened to your cheek?"
Ethan reached up instinctively, touching a red scratch near his jawline that he'd completely forgotten about. "Oh. I scraped it on the door hinge at Sarah's place while we were turning the sofa."
"You didn't notice that yesterday?"
"I was busy trying not to die under three hundred pounds of steel springs," Ethan said. He pulled the paper bag toward himself and opened it. Inside were three massive chocolate chip cookies, still slightly warm, smelling of dark sugar and butter. "Tell Sarah I forgive her for the three flights of stairs."
"She's already planning to ask you to move a dining table next month," Maya said, a dry smile touching the edge of her mouth. "I told her you'd charge fifty bucks next time."
"Eighty," Ethan corrected, taking a bite of a cookie. The chocolate was melted and rich, coating his mouth. "And a pizza."
Leo was already halfway through his cookie, crumbs raining down onto the glass counter where the display cases held vintage guitar picks. "Hey, Maya, you know anything about cars? Ethan's truck smells like wet wool."
"It's the floor mats," Ethan said quickly, chewing. "They got soaked when it rained last month."
"It's not the mats, Ethan," Maya said, pulling her hood down. Her hair was pulled back in a loose pony tail that looked like she'd done it in three seconds without looking in a mirror. "Your truck just old. It smells like every farm truck my uncle ever owned."
"It's a classic," Ethan muttered, though he knew the passenger floorboard literally had a rust hole small enough for a pencil to drop through.
The front door squeaked again, louder this time. Julian stepped in, holding a slim leather briefcase and wearing an immaculate beige trench coat that looked like it had been dry-cleaned five minutes ago. He looked around the shop, his eyes lingering for a second on the dead fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling.
"Morning," Julian said, his voice smooth and slightly too loud for eight-thirty in the morning. "Quite foggy out there today."
Nobody answered for two full seconds. Leo just kept chewing his cookie, while Ethan slowly set his coffee cup down on a stack of cardboard mailers.
"Can I help you with something, Julian?" Ethan asked, leaning his hands on the counter.
"Just dropped by to see if Mr. Henderson was in," Julian said, taking a step toward the center aisle. He glanced at Maya, giving her a short nod. "Maya. You're out early."
"I work across the street, Julian," she said neutrally, leaning her shoulder against the wooden record rack behind her. "I'm always out early."
"Right, right," Julian chuckled, shifting his briefcase to his left hand. "Anyway, Ethan, we're having a small regional manager meeting across the street this afternoon, and our main presentation monitor is having some ground-loop hum issues. I remembered you guys keep those old passive isolation transformers in the bargain bin. Thought I'd buy one off you instead of waiting for our corporate shipment."
Leo looked at Ethan. "We have those?"
"Bottom shelf behind the guitar cables," Ethan said. He stepped out from behind the counter, bent down near the dusty wooden crates, and began digging through a tangled mess of grey cords and plastic adapters.
His knees made a sharp cracking sound when he squatted.
"Take your time," Julian said, looking around the room with a slight smirk. "Nice atmosphere in here today. Very... minimalist with the lighting."
Ethan ignored him, his fingers searching through cold metal plugs until he felt the rectangular rubber casing of a ground-loop isolator. He pulled it out. It was covered in a grey layer of lint, and one of the RCA jacks had a tiny bend in the outer shield.
He stood up, wiping the lint off on his thigh. "Ten bucks."
Julian pulled out a brown leather wallet, extracted a crisp twenty-dollar bill, and laid it on the glass. "Keep the change, Ethan. Consider it a tip for the prompt service."
Ethan looked at the twenty-dollar bill sitting on the glass. He could have taken it, but something about the way Julian said "tip" made his teeth feel weird. He reached into the register drawer, pulled out two five-dollar bills, and set them firmly on top of Julian's twenty.
"Ten flat," Ethan said, his voice flat. "We don't take tips for ten-dollar parts."
Julian looked at the two fives, then at Ethan. His smile didn't fade, but his eyes narrowed just a fraction. "Fair enough. Professionalism is important, even in a place like this." He picked up the isolator and his change, slipping both into his coat pocket. "See you around, guys. Maya, don't forget the bakery order for our Friday team morning is due by three."
"Sarah handles the commercial orders, Julian," Maya said without looking at him, her attention fixed on the cookie crumbs on her thumb. "Call the shop line."
Julian gave a quick, tight nod and walked out, the front door letting out a long, grating whine as it swung shut behind him.
"Man," Leo said after four seconds of total silence. "That guy really makes me want to throw a heavy object through a window."
"Don't," Ethan said, picking up his cold coffee again. "Mr. Henderson would make us pay for the glass."
Maya stood up straight, pulling her jacket zipper up to her chin. "I gotta get back. Sarah's probably trying to mix forty pounds of rye dough by herself."
"Thanks for the cookies," Ethan said, looking at her.
She looked back at him, her eyes catching the light from the remaining good fluorescent bulb. "Yeah. See ya later, grease monkey. Fix your face scratch before it gets infected."
She turned and left, the door squeaking once more.
Ethan stood there, looking down at the two five-dollar bills still sitting on the register ledge. He picked them up, stuffed them into the cash drawer, and slammed it shut with a heavy metal clack.
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