The Rent is Due, and So is the Guilt

He didn’t want to do it.

But when the rent’s due, the fridge is empty, and your boss drops the word “restructuring,” you start picking up calls from strangers with burner phones.

The guy said it was a delivery gig.

“Just a hand-off. No talking, no names, no eye contact.”

Cash up front. Unmarked bills. The kind of job that finds you when you’ve stopped looking, and need it bad enough to say yes before there’s even a question.

They met in an empty lot behind an abandoned bowling alley. Crows lined the wires. Burned-out SUV across the street.

The man waiting wore gloves to shake his hand. He handed over a duffel bag. Heavy. Zipped. Reeking of copper and gasoline.

“You don’t open it,” the man said.

“You don’t ask where it’s going. You just follow the GPS and drop it in the blue dumpster behind the storage facility on 43rd. Before 2 a.m.”

“What’s in it?” he asked, too late, biting his own tongue to the point of blood.

The man paused.

“Nothing you want to be caught with.”

He laughed like it was funny. It wasn’t. He got in the borrowed car. The smell hit harder in the late-night heat, like roadkill soaked in bleach.

He cracked the window. Lit a cigarette. He’d quit months ago. Didn’t matter. White knuckles on the wheel.

Halfway there, he noticed the car. Same black four-door. Been behind him for six turns. He cut through a gas station. It followed. He ran a red. So did they. His chest tightened. Could’ve been the weed he smoked earlier. Could’ve been anxiety.

Could’ve been the unmistakable truth: This wasn’t a hand-off. This was a test. Or a setup.

He made it to the dumpster. Got out slow. Bag in hand. The car stalked in behind him.

Two guys stepped out. Halloween masks on their faces. Gloves already on. No badges. No questions. No words. Just footsteps. And the thunk of the bag hitting the metal bin.

He ran. Didn’t look back. Didn’t go home. Slept in a bus station bathroom, coat over his face, breathing through bleach and tile.

The next morning, he burned the SIM card, tossed the coat, and promised himself he’d never say yes again. But some nights, he still hears the thunk. And wonders if it could have been innocent enough, or if it’s still leaking somewhere, slow and patient, waiting for him to come back.

The nights haunt him, and the sun feels too bright. He shaves. Takes the long way to work. Throws out the cigarettes, keeps the lighter. Sometimes you still need fire.

Every buzz from his phone feels like bad news. Every knock sounds like a warrant. But nothing happens.

He starts to believe maybe it wasn’t what he thought. Just drugs. Just something dirty but survivable. Then he hears them. Two cops in a corner booth at the diner.

Late night. Fluorescent lights buzz like bugs in a jar. He’s three seats back, hoodie up, face lit by the glow of the beer sign. They don’t even see him.

“Storage place off 43rd,” the bigger one says. “Maintenance guy called it in. Thought it was trash. Bag was leaking.”

The other one scoffs through a bite of pie. “Leaking? Jesus.”

“Yeah. Took three hours before they confirmed it wasn’t an animal.”

Clatter of fork on ceramic.

“Small body. Young. Wrapped like trash. Some burn damage.”

Silence.

“Probably just another dump-and-run. We’ll never get a name.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. They keep talking about shifts, pensions, and coffee. Then they leave.

He sits there another twenty minutes. Pretending he’s waiting for someone. Then tips too much. Again. Walks home with his hands in his pockets, head down.

The bag wasn’t just heavy. It had weight. And now he carries it, whether he wants to or not. That night, he can’t sleep. Keeps replaying the cops’ voices, the tone of it.

“Small body. Young.”

That word “wrapped” won’t leave his head. By morning, he’s halfway through a pot of burnt coffee and staring at his contacts list. Most names he hasn’t called in months.

Then he sees it:

Jace.

The one who gave him the number.

Said it was a “favor,” a “little side hustle,” a “way to float through the month.”

They’d worked at the same warehouse before the layoffs. Split gas. Smoked out behind the dock. Shared silence like veterans do…too tired to lie, too ashamed to tell the truth.

Jace knew he was desperate. Knew he was drowning. That’s why he picked him. Not because he was strong. Because he was pliable.

He dials.

Doesn’t expect an answer. But Jace picks up. Casual as hell. Background noise, TV, maybe a microwave.

“Yo.”

“You knew.”

A pause.

“Don’t do that,” Jace says. “You asked for help. I helped. Don’t act like I made you do it.”

“You told me it was a delivery.”

“It was. You delivered.”

Silence.

Then softer, “Look, man… you still got the cash, right? Rent’s paid?”

He doesn’t respond.

“You’re fine, alright? It’s done.”

It’s done. He hangs up. He sets the phone down. It’s not fear in his hand. It’s something colder. Jace didn’t hate him. He just knew he couldn’t say no.

That’s the part that hurts the most.