"Thirty days," Silas said, already picking up his pen and returning to his crossword. "And close the door on your way out. You're letting the cold in."
The bell above the door was a harsh, electronic chime, not a pleasant tinkle. Inside, the shop smelled of dust, old vinyl, and the ozone tang of overheating space heaters. The walls were lined with the debris of failed lives: musical instruments no one played, power tools abandoned by contractors who went bust, and wedding rings stripped of their sentiment. The 8th Branch Of The Pawn Shop That Sucks Well...