By Tuesday afternoon, the cold dry air was replaced by a massive storm system rolling in from the coast.
The rain came down in thick, grey sheets that turned the gutters into rushing rivers of muddy water and plastic trash. Nobody was out on the streets, and the record store was completely silent except for the heavy, rhythmic beat of water against the roof.
Ethan was sitting behind the counter with a small oil can, finally taking apart the front door hinge mechanism.
He had removed the top hinge pin, which was completely covered in a thick crust of dark orange rust and dirt. He was using a piece of fine steel wool to rub the rust off, his thumb turning grey from the metallic dust.
"You've been working on that hinge for three days," Leo said, sitting on the floor behind the rock section with a comic book he'd found in the basement.
"I started twenty minutes ago," Ethan said, scrubbing hard at a stubborn patch of rust. "The WD-40 I used last week just mixed with the dust and made a sticky black paste inside the barrel."
"You should just tell Mr. Henderson to buy a new door."
"A new door costs six hundred bucks, Leo," Ethan said. "A can of machine oil costs four."
The door—currently held in place by only the bottom hinge—creaked ominously as a strong gust of wind hit the storefront from the outside.
"Careful," Leo said without looking up from his comic. "If that door falls off and smashes on the sidewalk, Mr. Henderson is gonna deduct it from your estate when you die."
Ethan ignored him, wiping the clean steel pin with a dry rag until it shone silver in the dim light of the shop. He squirted three drops of clear machine oil into the hinge barrel, lined the metal leaves up, and tapped the pin back into place with the wooden handle of his screwdriver.
TAP. TAP. TAP.
He stepped back, grabbed the door handle, and pushed the heavy wooden door open.
It moved smoothly, silently, swinging back and forth without letting out even a tiny squeak.
Ethan stood there for a second, a strange sense of quiet victory washing over him. "Ha. Look at that."
"Look at what?" Leo asked, turning a page.
"It doesn't make any noise," Ethan said proudly, swinging the door back and forth twice more. "Silent as a feather."
Just then, the door swung open from the outside, pushed hard by a gust of wind.
Maya stepped in, dripping wet, holding a yellow plastic raincoat over her head. Water was running off the edges of her coat onto the floor mat in long streams.
She lowered the coat, wiped her wet face with her sleeve, and stopped. She looked at the door, then at Ethan holding the oil can.
"Did you... fix the door?" she asked, her voice sounding surprised.
"Completely silent," Ethan said, holding his screwdriver like a trophy. "No squeaking. Nothing."
Maya pushed the door shut, then pulled it open again. It moved without a sound.
She looked at Ethan, a slow, genuine smile spreading across her face. "Huh. I'll be damned. You actually did it."
"Told you I would," Ethan said, feeling a sudden warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the shop's heater.
"Only took you four months," Leo called out from behind the rock rack.
"Shut up, Leo!" Ethan yelled back, but he couldn't hide the smile on his face as he set the oil can down on the glass counter.
Maya shook her wet coat out near the entrance, hanging it on the wooden peg by the wall. "Sarah made apple tarts today. Real ones. Not burnt, not squished."
Ethan looked at her dark hair, plastered against her neck by the rain, and felt a quiet, simple contentment settling over the small, noisy room.
"Bring 'em over," Ethan said, pulling up two stools. "Let's eat."
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