For weeks Rafik and Heather seemed to go only to the movies. And two hours was not enough time. When it wasn’t movies, it was the bedroom door locked, the expected sounds. “You have made them love too much,” Aziz complained to Ghazi. “It is bed, bed, bed.” Why no dinners out and then a movie? Why no more getaway to Maine? Aziz was a jump rope in a schoolyard. Ghazi counseled patience.

The night finally came in late October. It was also a night Mourad went to Reach. The stun gun was tucked in Ghazi’s waist, Aziz was parked by the entrance in a white subcompact, and the first downfall of a storm was spattering the windshield.

“The rain is best,” Ghazi said on the cell phone, from inside the storage unit. “Not a good night for loading.”

“What do you see?”

“No suitcases.”

“Barrels?”

“None.”

“None?”

“Boxes. Boxes. Boxes.”

“Beer boxes?”

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“Stun gun.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Your dick. You shot it.”

“Cousin, I call you back.”

Aziz pushed a button on the phone and put it on the dashboard. He considered turning on the radio but worried it might distract. It would be risky to run the engine; he was the only one in the lot, and the exhaust would draw attention. He slumped down to see if he could still see the entrance. He could, but not all of it.

It was not really an entrance, it was a turn. There was a highway, not much of a shoulder, then a strip of graveled tar instead of grass. After that, a speed bump. Not many cars on this suburb highway. He shifted his ass. No, he could not stay down. Too hard to see, really. He sat up and molded himself to the seat. After a time he realized he was thinking about Rafik, and Ghazi finding chemicals, and, yes, he was staring at the entrance but not seeing it. He focused. A car on the highway went by, fast, a blue one maybe. Orange was the color here. The U-Stor-It had a squat office with backlit orange walls. The roof was orange. The pole sign, lights on, shined orange.

When the cell phone chirped later, Aziz jumped and something slid to the floor. He fumbled. He felt his lap. Behind the seat. The phone’s tweeting seemed to come from the steering wheel. The dashboard! That was where he put it. It was still there. He pressed the button Ghazi had shown him. He put the phone to his ear. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing. It was dark, quite dark. Had he hit the wrong button twice? He tried one he hoped was far from the wrong one. Still nothing.