Martha gestured to a stack of boxes in the corner. "You’re in luck. Most people forget we exist and head straight for the giants. These are U-shaped—quieter, and you can still open your window."
The humidity in the apartment was so thick that Elias felt like he was breathing through a damp sponge. When his old air conditioner let out a final, metallic wheeze and died, he didn't mourn; he grabbed his keys.
His first stop was , the kind of place where the aisles are miles long and the fluorescent lights hum with clinical indifference. He found the "Seasonal Comfort" section, but it was a graveyard of empty pallets and "Sold Out" signs. A passing employee, looking frayed, didn't even stop walking. "Try the website," he called out. "Warehouse is empty until July."