Wednesday morning was cold, grey, and smelled of wet wool and ozone.
Mr. Henderson had spent the last two hours sitting behind his small oak desk in the back office, surrounded by stacks of paper receipts, manila folders, and three different calculators that all looked like they were manufactured in the mid-1980s.
Ethan was on his knees near the bargain cassette racks, holding a plastic clipboard with a pencil tucked behind his right ear. His fingers were stiff from the cold draft coming through the floorboards, and his jeans had two white chalk marks on the knees from kneeling on the old rug.
"How many copies of that Foreigner tape do we have left?" Leo called out from the other side of the counter, where he was supposedly re-organizing the 80s rock section.
"Three," Ethan said, squinting at a handwritten label on a cracked plastic case. "Wait. Four. One of them's missing the cover art, though."
"Mark it down as three," Leo said, his voice echoing slightly in the quiet shop. "Nobody buys a tape without the cover art unless they're gonna record over it with radio garbage anyway."
"Mr. Henderson wants an exact count, Leo," Ethan said, clicking his ballpoint pen twice. "If I put three and he finds the fourth one during his monthly sweep, he's gonna give me that forty-second speech about 'inventory integrity'."
"That speech is awful," Leo admitted, leaning his elbows on the glass display case. "He uses the word 'stewardship' like six times."
Before Ethan could write down the number, the front door swung open.
It opened smoothly and silently, thanks to the oil Ethan had applied yesterday. It was strange not hearing the loud, wet screech that had announced every visitor for the last four months.
Maya walked in, wearing a oversized grey knit sweater under her dark denim jacket. She had her hood pulled up against the sharp wind outside, and she was carrying a small metal thermos that had dark red chipped paint around the cap.
"Hey," she said, leaning her back against the counter. She pulled her hood down, her hair falling around her shoulders in a messy, damp clump. "Where's the noise?"
Ethan looked up from his clipboard, a tiny smirk touching his mouth. "Fixed, remember? Silent operation."
"It's weird," she said, looking back at the wooden door frame. "I almost walked past the shop because I didn't hear the screech when the wind pushed it open earlier."
"You get used to it," Ethan said, standing up and rubbing his lower back. His joints made a sharp pop sound that echoed in the quiet space.
"Gross," Maya said, pulling the cap off the thermos. "Your spine sounds like a twig breaking."
"It's just nitrogen bubbles in the joint fluid," Ethan said defensively, stepping around the counter. "It's normal."
"It's not normal for twenty-four," she said, pouring a thin stream of dark, steaming liquid into the thermos lid. "Here. Sarah made Mexican hot chocolate with chili powder and cinnamon. Drink it before your legs collapse."
Ethan took the small plastic cup. It was hot enough to sting his fingertips through the thin plastic, but the smell—spicy cocoa, sweet sugar, and a heavy hit of dark chocolate—was incredible.
He took a small sip. The heat hit his tongue first, followed by a sharp, warm burn of red pepper at the back of his throat that made his nose clear instantly.
"Whoa," Ethan said, blinking. "That's got some kick."
"Sarah accidentally dumped a double tablespoon of cayenne in the pot because she forgot her glasses this morning," Maya said dryly, taking a sip straight from the thermos neck. "It builds character, right?"
Ethan laughed, taking another slow sip. "It definitely wakes you up."
Leo drifted over from the cassette rack like a vulture sensing a fresh meal. "Is there enough for me?"
"No," Maya said plainly, pulling the thermos away from him. "You didn't help carry three hundred pounds of steel frame last week."
"I helped sort the bargain cassettes!" Leo argued, holding up his dusty hands. "Look at these calluses!"
"Those are pencil smudges, Leo," Maya said, her voice entirely flat.
Before Leo could protest further, Mr. Henderson stepped out of his back office, holding a stack of yellow ledger paper. He looked over his wire-rimmed glasses at the three of them standing near the register.
"Ethan," Mr. Henderson said in his raspy voice. "Did you finish the cassette count?"
"Almost done, sir," Ethan said, setting his hot chocolate cup down on a rubber coaster near the tape deck. "Just gotta double-check the 70s folk section."
Mr. Henderson grunted, his eyes lingering for a second on the silent front door. He walked over, grabbed the brass handle, and pushed the door open two inches, then let it shut. He did it again.
"Smooth," Mr. Henderson remarked, his face remaining entirely expressionless. "Good work with the oil."
"Thanks, sir," Ethan said.
"Don't get cocky," Mr. Henderson added, turning back toward his office. "The lock cylinder on the back storage room is sticking now. Look at it before Friday."
He clicked his office door shut, leaving the three of them alone again.
"He praised you," Leo whispered, his eyes wide with fake shock. "Ethan, he literally said 'good work'. I think he's dying."
"He's not dying," Ethan muttered, taking another sip of the spicy cocoa. "He just likes things that work properly."
Maya looked at Ethan, her dark eyes catching the dim yellow light from the overhead lamps. "Must be nice to fix things and actually have them stay fixed for once."
"Depends on the thing," Ethan said, looking down at his clipboard. "Some things just need new oil. Other things are just broken."
Maya stared at him for a second, her expression unreadable, before screwing the cap back onto her thermos with a slow, deliberate twist. "Yeah. I guess so."
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