Marcus reached behind the main pressure valve to retrieve his dropped washer and felt his knuckles strike crinkling plastic.
He reached further into the dark gap between the concrete foundation and the hot iron pipes.
His fingers closed around the neck of a plastic water bottle, then another, and then a third.
He pulled them out into the dim light of his work lamp.
Seven empty gallon jugs of spring water were wedged into the tight crawlspace, their plastic sides dusty and crushed.
Two more sat behind them, still half-filled with stagnant water.
Marcus frowned, holding one of the clear bottles up to the bulb.
The blue caps were all marked with a black ink cross, drawn hasty and small near the collar.
He knew that mark; Zhou used it to label her sewing shears and her lunch tin at home.
By half past five that evening, the smell of roasted garlic filled the small kitchen as Zhou stood at the counter, her knife clicking rhythmically against the wooden board as she chopped green onions.
Marcus sat at the table, placing the heavy ceramic plates on the floral tablecloth.
