Through the feed, I could see Corbin had his phone raised, recording. He swept it slowly across the room. The bare walls. The empty floor. The fifteen people standing in their winter coats around a folding metal chair with a cardboard box on it, looking like witnesses at a very unusual ceremony. That was his generation, I thought. When something happened, you documented it first and processed it later.
Blythe cut through the tape on the first box with her car key and pulled the flaps open. Inside was another box. She stared at it for one full second. Then she reached in and lifted it out and set it on the floor and cut through that tape too. Another box.
“What is this?” someone near the back said. A cousin, I thought, based on his age and the way he was holding his phone at the same angle as Corbin.
“It’s fine,” Blythe said in the tone of someone who is not at all sure it is fine. “She probably just packed it this way to protect whatever is inside.”
She opened the third box. Another box. Morwenna crossed her arms. The champagne-colored fur coat rustled as she shifted her weight. She said nothing, but the quality of her silence had changed from expectant to watchful.
By the fourth box, a woman near the window, one of Blythe’s sisters-in-law judging by the family resemblance, let out a short sound that was almost a laugh. She caught herself immediately, pressing her fingers to her lips, her eyes moving quickly to Blythe. Blythe’s jaw tightened. She did not look up.
The fifth box was the size of a shoe box. Blythe cut the tape with more force than necessary, and a small piece of cardboard tore away under the key’s edge. She lifted the flap. Another box. This one no larger than something you might put a bracelet in.
The room had gone very quiet. The kind of quiet that happens when a group of people simultaneously realizes they have all been wrong about something and are each waiting for someone else to say it first.
Blythe ripped the tape off the final box and pulled the lid free. Inside, packed neatly in a single layer, were fifteen plastic kazoos in neon green. The kind handed out at children’s birthday parties. The kind that cost less than two dollars a piece at a party supply store on Clement Avenue.
Beneath them, folded once, was a sheet of paper. Blythe’s hand was trembling slightly as she reached in and unfolded it. She read it once to herself. The color in her face changed in a way that was visible even through the grainy feed I was watching from eight hundred miles away.
Then Morwenna said, “Read it out loud, Blythe.”
Blythe read it out loud. “Since you suggested I find a motel, I went ahead and booked one for you instead. The address is below. The host is expecting you. Happy New Year. Lavinia.”
Nobody laughed. One person exhaled. Someone else shifted their weight, and the floor creaked under them in that resonant way empty floors do.
Morwenna snatched the paper from Blythe’s hand and opened Google Maps. I could not see her screen, but I did not need to. I knew what the map would show. Forty-two miles. Exit 14 off the interstate. The Ridgeway Motor Inn. Two bunk beds. Maximum occupancy, four persons. Continental breakfast from 7 to 9.
“This is forty miles away,” Morwenna said.
“Forty-two,” Corbin said quietly, and then seemed surprised he had spoken at all. It was the kind of correction that comes out before the brain catches up. Precise. Automatic. And entirely beside the point.
Whatever Morwenna was about to say in response was swallowed by the sound that came from outside. A heavy diesel engine idling at low speed. And the mechanical groan of a hydraulic lift engaging.
Someone near the front window looked out and said, very flatly, “They’re towing the cars.”
The room moved all at once toward the windows and the front door. Through my camera feed, I watched them spill out onto the porch and down the walkway, voices overlapping, someone grabbing someone else’s arm. Three of the SUVs that had been parked with their wheels on my grass and their rear bumpers extending over the sidewalk were now in various stages of being attached to tow trucks. The fourth vehicle, which had made it into the driveway itself, was untouched.
Blythe pushed through to the front and addressed the nearest tow truck driver with the full force of her personality. He listened with the patience of someone who had heard every variation of this particular conversation before and handed her a carbon copy of the violation notice without changing his expression.
Ray was standing on his front porch in his flannel shirt with a mug of coffee, watching the proceedings with the calm interest of a man who has nowhere else to be.
“HOA regulation Section 4.2,” he said when Blythe turned toward him. “No unauthorized vehicles on landscaped areas or blocking the public sidewalk after eight p.m. Mrs. Sterling notified the association on December the 22nd that she would be absent this weekend and that any vehicles meeting that description should be reported for removal.” He paused. “That’s three hundred fifty dollars per vehicle at the impound lot on Route 17. They close at midnight, so I’d move quickly if I were you.”
Blythe stared at him. Ray took a sip of his coffee.
A thousand and fifty dollars before midnight on New Year’s Eve.
Corbin had stopped recording at some point during the towing. He stood on the porch with his phone in his hand, not filming anything, not saying anything, his breath coming out in visible clouds in the cold air. He looked down at the screen. There was a message he had not seen before, sent according to the timestamp nearly an hour ago while they were still on the road. It was from his mother. It said: Check the backyard.
Corbin. He walked around the side of the house alone. He pushed open the gate to the backyard, stepped through, and stopped.
The cooler had been dragged to the center of the patio. The lid had been removed, presumably to speed along the natural refrigeration process that Blythe had considered so clever. Three raccoons were working through the contents with the methodical efficiency of animals that had done this before and expected to do it again. One of them was holding a king crab leg in both front paws. Another had its entire head inside the foam lining of the cooler. The third looked up when Corbin opened the gate, regarded him with complete indifference, and went back to the sea bass.
Corbin stood there in the cold for a long time. He did not move. He did not go back inside. He just stood there looking at what was left of the seafood, and I could not tell from eight hundred miles away whether he wanted to laugh or simply disappear into the frozen ground.
Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
Sophia holds a degree in Journalism from the University of Toronto, where she developed her skills in news reporting, media ethics, and digital journalism. Her expertise lies in identifying key stories, crafting compelling narratives, and ensuring journalistic integrity in every piece she edits.
Known for her precision and dedication to the truth, Sophia thrives in the fast-paced world of news editing. At TheArchivists, she focuses on producing high-quality news content that keeps readers informed while maintaining a balanced and insightful perspective.
With a commitment to delivering impactful journalism, Sophia is passionate about bringing clarity to complex issues and amplifying voices that matter. Her work reflects her belief in the power of news to shape conversations and inspire change.