The 8th Branch Of The Pawn Shop That Sucks Well...

Silas picked up the class ring. He squinted at the stone. "Glass," he said. "Worthless." He tossed it back into the box. He picked up the watch. "Missing the crown. Won't tick." Toss. Finally, his fingers brushed the red ribbon. He paused.

The shop had taken my watch and my ring. It had given me fifty bucks I didn't really need. But it had refused to take the one thing I wanted to get rid of. And as I walked down the street, realizing I was going to have to carry that weight a little longer, I understood why the locals called it that. The 8th Branch Of The Pawn Shop That Sucks Well...

Rowe named a number that would buy a month of groceries and a month of silence. Marla counted the bills and slid them across the counter. Rowe tucked the money into his coat as if it were paper origami and, when he left, he left behind a smell of burned toast and riverbed moss. Silas picked up the class ring