By three o’clock, the living room in Rowan’s apartment on Maple Street was crowded with brown cardboard boxes. She was tape-sealing a carton of kitchen pans while I wrapped her everyday glasses in newspaper.
“We are using Arthur’s truck on Saturday,” Rowan said, reaching for a stack of old magazines on her coffee table. “He has a storage unit on the north side of town.”
“Does he pay for that unit monthly?” I asked, setting a wrapped water glass into the cardboard grid.
“I think he has a yearly lease,” she said, her voice dropping slightly as she tossed the magazines. “He said it makes more sense to keep his old business files there.”
“You still have six weeks, Rowan,” I said, placing another tumbler into the box. “There is no need to rush the packing.”
“Arthur says it is better to do it in stages,” she said, her voice rising in that quick, defensive way she used when she felt questioned. “He wants the apartment cleared out so we do not have to pay November’s rent.”
