Hawley tugged on the sleeves of his uniform as he paced out on the loading dock then shoved them into his pockets and felt the paper clip. The fog was rolling in from and his wrists were cold, but he wouldn’t go back into the warehouse, not yet. He was supposed to be happy now. He had a job and a girl, and a truck that was paid for a boat he owned with a bank. He could sleep on the boat if he didn’t want to stay at Johanna’s house for if he got tired of her mother glaring at him. He didn’t have to talk to anyone at work, just once a night get out of way when they delivered then punch and punch out. They’d made their delivery and now they were gone. It wasn’t his business, yet his fingers kept noticing the paperclip in his pocket.
If he just stayed out here, walking and fuming, he’d live to old and fat and happy. Life would be perfect if only these sleeves were a half inch longer, his pant legs too, just a bit more so the cold wasn’t knowing at his ankles and wrists. He kept warm, pacing, telling himself that it wasn’t his business. But the cold wouldn’t leave him alone. It started to creep down his collar and he began to shiver, he wasn’t going to stand there just shaking. He stepped back into the warmth of the warehouse and stood looking at all the crates they’d dropped off. Dull green and padlocked. There was only one way of knowing exactly what was inside. He stepped over, fingering the paper clip until he could kneel down next to the lock and took out the paperclip, straightening it out and then bending it into a decent pick. Shouldn’t take long, not long at all, until finally he heard the tumblers click.