I chose inventory.

It did not make me brave.

I was not brave.

It made me useful to myself, which in that cellar was the only kind of courage that was going to be any good to me.

Chapter 12 — The Spare Key in the Linen

My watch had a faint glow on the dial, and I learned to hate how slowly the hours turned on it.

I moved along the perimeter of the cellar with my hands out, feeling the dusty shoulders of bottles that cost more than my weekly salary at the firm, reaching into the empty bins for a loose brick or a forgotten tool, finding nothing but dry mortar and cold stone and cobwebs.