On Sunday afternoon, the rain returned—not a heavy storm, just a persistent, cold drizzle that turned the autumn leaves on the pavement into a slippery brown paste.
Ethan and Leo were standing in a dark, cluttered two-car garage in New Jersey, surrounded by stacks of rusted lawnmowers, old paint cans, and twenty-four wooden fruit crates packed with vinyl records.
The garage belonged to Dave’s older brother, Ray, a guy in his late fifties wearing a stained grease-monkey jumpsuit and holding a half-empty aluminum can of light beer.
"Take 'em all for two hundred," Ray said, waving his beer can at the crates. "My wife wants her parking spot back before the snow hits next month."
Leo was already on his knees beside the nearest box, pulling out metal albums like a maniac. "Ethan! Look at this! Original 1983 pressing of Mercyful Fate! The sleeve is a little dusty, but the vinyl is mint!"
Ethan squatted beside another box, pulling a flashlight from his jacket pocket to inspect the records.
"Ray," Ethan said, looking up. "Half of these boxes have water damage on the bottom edges. The cardboard sleeves are moldy."
"So don't buy the moldy ones," Ray shrugged, taking a sip of his beer. "Fifty bucks for the twelve clean boxes."
Ethan looked at Leo, who was practically vibrating with excitement.
"Fifty flat," Ethan said, standing up. "And you help us load them into the truck."
"Deal," Ray said, extending a grease-stained hand.
They spent forty-five minutes hauling the twelve clean wooden crates out through the drizzle into the bed of Ethan's Ford, covering them tightly with the heavy grey tarp and securing them with cargo straps.
By four PM, they were driving back across the bridge toward the city, the truck’s heater roaring hot, smelling of old coffee and dusty cardboard.
"Man," Leo said, leaning his head back against the headrest. "Fifty bucks for twelve boxes of vintage heavy metal and classic rock. We're gonna make two grand off these online before the shop closes in April."
"If we clean them all," Ethan reminded him, keeping both hands on the loose steering wheel as they crossed the wet bridge girders.
"I'll clean them!" Leo volunteered instantly. "I'll spend every night this week cleaning them if we split the profit!"
Ethan looked out through the wet windshield at the skyline of the city glowing through the rain fog.
"Leo," Ethan said softly. "What are you gonna do when the shop closes?"
Leo was quiet for a few seconds—a rare thing for him—staring out the side window at the grey river below.
"I don't know, man," Leo admitted, his tone dropping its usual hyperactive energy. "Maybe go back to community college. Maybe try to get a job at a real distributor in the city. What about you?"
Ethan kept his eyes on the road. "I don't know either."
"You could open your own repair shop," Leo suggested, looking over at him. "Seriously, Ethan. You fixed Dave's turntable, you fixed that old lady's radio, you fix everything that comes through that door. People around here know you."
Ethan didn't answer immediately. The idea of opening his own shop had crossed his mind a hundred times, but it required money, a lease, commercial insurance, and a level of risk he'd never taken in his life.
"It costs a lot of money to rent a space," Ethan said quietly.
"You got six months to figure it out, man," Leo said, patting the dashboard with his hand. "And you got a truck. That's half the battle right there."
Ethan let out a short, dry laugh, but as he turned the truck onto 4th Street, the thought stayed in his head, germinating slowly like a seed planted in damp soil.
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