“You’ve gotta check it out!” Eric exclaimed. “Please, please, please!” 

Kylie felt it was kind of morbid. Practically half the town had died during the pandemic—or at least that’s how it felt, after the third wave tore through. Storefronts still sat empty with sun-faded Closed signs taped in the windows. Some houses never turned their lights back on. Eric, like a lot of people, didn’t see it that way. He saw opportunity where everyone else saw what was left behind.

“The lockdown’s finally over,” he added, like that explained everything. “They’re clearing out the mini warehouses, like half the units. Whole lives just sitting there.”

“You don’t think it’s a little messed up? Selling people’s lives like this?” Kylie said.

Eric groaned, ”You are missing the point. This isn’t a bunch of stuff someone donated or junk from a grimy flea market.” He grinned, “This is the stuff people wanted to keep.” 

Kylie let out a dry laugh. “That’s depressing as hell, dude.” Kylie shook her head, “I don’t know about this. It feels like major bad karma or something.”

“You know my uncle’s garage sat untouched for almost two years after he died,” Eric said. “Whole place just rotting because nobody wanted to deal with it. It’s better with us than the landfill.” 

Despite her protest, Kylie got up bright and early Saturday morning. Eric was already in the parking lot when she arrived, practically bounding on his heels. He looked like a kid waiting his turn at the candy counter. 

A crowd had gathered near the entrance. Most of them were men, middle aged with hands shoved in their pockets. A few younger guys lingered around the edges, the kind who looked like they spent more time online than anywhere else. There were a couple of older men with women tucked against their sides, fingers hooked possessively at their waists. The crowd was boisterous and excited. Kylie stood out without trying. Long straight blonde hair, layered jewelry, boots that fell heavily against the pavement. She caught a few glances, but it was probably due to her wearing a mask. 

She tugged on Eric’s sleeve. “Should I be here?” She said, laughing, though not entirely joking. “This just means you are alone in your category!” Eric smiled, “and bound to find something you will want to take home.” He gave her a playful nudge, lighting her mood. She rolled her eyes. 

The auctioneer came out with an assistant to address the group. “Thank you all for coming out today,” he bellowed. “We’ve got a whopping thirty units to get through.” A ripple of excitement moved through the group. “We’ll open each locker and give you a couple minutes to look inside,” he continued, “No touching, no entering the unit. If you see something you like, raise your hand nice and high—we’ll call on you for bids.” 

They started to lead the crowd down the row of units, the sounds of footsteps and low chatter echoing off the metal doors. The first one rattled open. Inside sat a large rolling toolbox, surrounded by several crumpled Walmart bags. A few of the middle-aged men leaned in, grunting with interest. Kylie looked at Eric disappointed. He smiled, motioning her to be patient. The bidding went quickly. The unit sold for one hundred and fifty dollars. This surprised Kylie, but she supposed the tools must be worth something. 

The next locker rattled open, items practically spilling out. It looked like someone had packed their entire life into the space—possibly living out of it for a while. A worn sofa was wedged on its side against the wall, an arm chair stacked on top. A flat-screen TV leaned precariously on a stack of plastic bins. Video game cases littered the floor like someone had walked away mid-game. A few of the younger guys perked up, already raising their hands. A man with a neck beard scored this one for around three-hundred dollars—someone’s whole life reduced to a number. 

As they moved from locker to locker, the crowd began to thin. People dropped out once they hit their limits, drifting off with whatever pieces of other people’s lives they’d managed to claim. Eric had already scored a unit he was convinced held a vintage guitar. Now it was mostly him, Kylie, and a handful of others left. They stopped in front of the next unit. 

The door rattled open. Inside, everything was…sterile. Clothing racks lined the space, each piece carefully wrapped in plastic covers. Shoes were arranged along the wall on a shoe rack—expensive looking shoes, all in near perfect condition. Kylie straightened without realizing it. The style was unmistakable: vintage, alternative, layered in a way that felt very curated. This one felt like it had been made for her. 

Eric caught the shift immediately. “Oh you are bidding on this,” he said, nudging her, “Girl, somebody in there had taste.” 

Kylie didn’t respond. One of the younger guys still lingering nearby leaned forward, studying the unit a little too closely. Something about his demeanor made her stomach turn. 

“Alright, we’ll start the bidding at one hundred,” the auctioneer called. Kylie’s hand shot up. “Got one hundred—do I hear one-fifty?” The guy beside her lifted his hand without hesitation. Kylie raised hers again. The numbers climbed quickly, back and forth. She could feel him watching her now. She fixed him with a hard look. He hesitated. “Going once… going twice…” He dropped his hand. “Sold! Two-hundred.” 

Kylie tapped out after that. Eric wanted to stay until the end, but she waved him off. They had to clear the unit out by the end of the day anyway, so she wanted to get started. 

“Go,” she said, “I’ll be fine.” Her competition bidder glared at her as he passed. 

Eric hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll come find you when it’s over.” 

She watched him disappear back into the crowd, suddenly aware of how exposed she felt without him beside her. Then she turned back to her locker. She leaned in and flicked on the light. The exposed light bulb sputtered, then settled into a weak, yellow glow. Up close, the space felt smaller than it did before. She slid the clothing racks aside, metal scraping softly against the concrete, revealing a small desk tucked against the back wall. It hadn’t been visible from the entrance. She pulled out the chair and took a seat. 

The desk had two drawers—a smaller one on top, with a larger one beneath it. She pulled the top drawer open first. Inside were pens, tape, a pair of scissors, and other desk supplies neatly arranged. She closed it. The lower drawer did not budge. She pulled harder, with no success. It was locked. Kylie leaned back in the chair, exhaling through her nose. That was strange. If there was anything worth hiding, it would be in there. She checked the underside of the desk, running her fingers along the wood. There was nothing. She glanced back at the top drawer, then around the unit. Her eyes drifted back to the clothing racks. 

She stood, stepping out from behind the desk, and unzipped one of the plastic covers. The clothes inside weren’t random pieces, but outfits layered and styled. Accessories attached in zip lock bags, like someone had planned them down to the smallest detail. This felt less like a wardrobe and more like a collection. Kylie lingered by the racks, fingertips drifting over the cloth. The clothes didn’t feel random—not thrift store chaos or clearance leftovers. Everything matched too well. Every outfit looked assembled with intention. 

She paused at a black denim jacket hanging near the center of the rack. Silver hardware caught the weak yellow light, dulled slightly with age. The sleeves were cuffed neatly, like someone had taken it off carefully instead of tossing it aside. Without thinking too hard about it, she slipped it free from the rack. The fabric smelled faintly of dust and perfume. 

“Okay,” she muttered under her breath, “this is actually insane.” 

She shrugged the jacket on. It fit perfectly. The shoulders aligned perfectly. The sleeves brushed her wrists at exactly the right spot. Even the weight of it felt familiar. Kylie stared at herself in the cracked mirror hanging beside the desk. For a moment, the storage locker disappeared around her. The fluorescent light softened the edges of everything. She looked older, somehow sharper—more complete. 

A strange unease crept up her spine. She tugged the jacket back off quickly, suddenly aware that she had no idea who had worn it last. For a second, she imagined some other girl standing exactly where she stood now, adjusting the same sleeves beneath the same yellow light. Kylie folded the jacket carefully over her arm instead of putting it back. 

Kylie glanced at the shoe rack behind her. She crouched, scanning through the rows. Her breath caught. They weren’t knock-offs. Every pair was a recognizable brand. The kind she could never justify buying new. This locker was worth far more than what she had paid. 

Her gaze landed on a pair of Mary Janes—chunky, black, worn just enough to look lived in, but carefully maintained. They were women’s size eight, just her size. She hesitated before slipping her hand inside, like she was reaching into something that had been waiting for her. Next to them, she spotted a pair of Doc Martens. She pulled one free, checking the inside—size ten. Not too far from her size. She turned back to the clothes. She flipped through the racks more slowly this time. The sizes varied, but only slightly. They were close enough she could easily fit into them all. For a moment, Kylie forgot where the clothes had come from.

Then another thought arrived uninvited. The same girl in a hospital bed. Tubing pressed beneath her nose. Machines breathing for her after her lungs stopped doing it themselves. 

“So…was it worth it?” 

Kylie jumped with a sharp squeak. Eric stood in the doorway, hands raised in mock surrender. “You scared the shit outta me,” she snapped. 

“Sorry,” he said, laughing, “Didn’t realize you were being haunted by the ghost of lockers past.” He looked far too pleased with himself. Kylie gave him a flat, disapproving look. 

“Did I miss anything interesting?” she asked, shifting the conversation. 

“Well, there was this one locker. Main thing in it was an antique car. They couldn’t sell us the car without a title. Not much else was in it, so some guy walked away with the unit for twenty bucks.” Kylie gave a small giggle at this. 

“So, as I was saying. Dead people don’t need Demonias?” Eric grinned.

“Oh, you have no idea,” she said with a big grin. “One pair of these shoes alone is worth more than what I paid.” She picked up a pair of platform Demonias, showing the brand name. Eric lit up, like a proud parent “No way!” He held up his hand, and she met it with a quick, yet reluctant high five. 

 “The only weird thing,” she added, nodding to the desk, “is this locked drawer in the back.” This seemed to excite Eric. He brushed past her to the desk, taking a look for himself. 

“There must be something really interesting in there,” he stated.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Kylie admitted, lingering behind him. “But it feels… wrong. Like it’s something we weren’t meant to see.” She hesitated. “What if it’s something personal, like her diary or something?” 

Eric glanced at her, unimpressed. He tugged on the handle again, frowning. 

“Its not even that sturdy.”

Kylie hovered behind him, “Eric…this doesn’t feel right.”

“Look, Kylie, they’re not coming back for it. Whatever is in there belongs to you now. It doesn’t matter where it came from.” He slid the top drawer open and rummaged around, pulling out the scissors, then a small flathead screwdriver. “That’ll do.”

“Eric,” she said again, sharper this time. “We don’t even know what’s in there.” 

“Exactly!” he shot back, already wedging the tip into the seam of the drawer. “Which means it’s probably worth opening. If they left such expensive items out, imagine what’s in here.” The wood splintered softly as he twisted. Kylie winced at the sound. For a second, nothing happened. Then with a sharp crack, the drawer gave way.  

Eric shook his hands, catching his breath. They both peeked into the drawer. Kylie reached in and pulled out two photo albums. Eric felt around the rest of the drawer to make sure there were no hidden treasures stashed. He quickly fanned through one of the books. “These are just a bunch of photos!” He cried in disappointment. 

Kylie flipped open the other book. Inside were candid photos of a girl who looked familiar. She looked up to share her discovery, but Eric was already backing out of the unit. “Well, I’m gonna go see that guitar,” he said.

“Wait,” Kylie called, but he was already gone, “but she looks like me…” The girl in the photos had long blonde hair, blue eyes, and long slender legs. The resemblance was uncanny. Kylie knew they shouldn’t have opened the drawer. The girl wore a long green skirt, with an oversized beige blouse, and Mary Janes. Kylie’s stomach dropped. 

“This is one of the outfits,” she said quietly, moving to the rack. She pulled free the same outfit, lifting the shoes beside it. Tucked into the album page was a coffee sleeve. It looked to be from a New York coffee house. She laid these out on the ground atop the plastic cover she removed. Kylie flipped the page. Another outfit from the rack, featuring a dress and the Demonias this time. This one seemed to be from Washington D.C., based on a brochure for the Washington monument. The girl was wearing glasses in this one. The next page was the same girl, but in Florida. She wore a corduroy skirt with a black turtle neck and the Doc Martins. She wore her hair braided in pigtails here. In every photo, she was walking down a street, sitting in a coffee shop, all perfectly framed, but not necessarily intentionally posed. 

“She must be some kind of model,” Kylie said too quickly.  Even as she said it, she flipped back a page, to see the same girl, same angle, same distance. No posing.

She walked over to the rack, finding the dress and the corduroy outfits. The skirt seemed to have some sort of dark stains near the band. She detached the skirt and moved out of the unit into the sunlight. For a moment, she told herself it was nothing, just a spill. But whatever it was had soaked deep into the fibers. She didn’t need to touch it to know. She lowered the skirt slowly. 

She returned to the lock, flipping through all the pages of the photo album. It was the same thing over and over. Then she opened the second book, to more of the same. But this time, she noticed some photos that looked like they were taken from inside someone’s home. Photos, clearly taken without consent. She slammed the book shut, carrying it to the sunlight. 

She looked closer. These weren’t some model look books. These were all different girls. Her heart pounded. On the last page of the photo album was a girl wearing combat boots and…  the same jacket she lost last fall. Kylie’s breath caught. She looked slowly down at the black denim jacket folded over the chair. Suddenly, she could not remember whether she had brought it into her locker herself. 

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Kaycee Painter is a disabled poet from Dalton, Georgia, and serves as the web editor for Mouthful of Salt. She writes from the body, exploring what it means to endure in a world not built for you. Her work has appeared in TrashLight Press, Beyond Words Magazine, and The Nonbinary Review. You can find more of her work at https://kayceepainter.weebly.com/