Garbage collection

There stood Fred in the doorway of apartment 27B, with a pallor that said he hadn’t seen the Sun since November, reeking of recycled air and ozone. The stairs had not been kind to Fred today. “The rent was due last week,” Ben said, filling his mouth from a bowl of soggy shredded wheat. “So, three months you owe me.” Fred stepped inside and locked the deadbolt. He latched the chain, then jammed a chair under the handle. He turned but did not check the window. He sat instead on the floor with his back against the wall and exhaled a long and careful breath as though the room might break around him. “So. You went to the storage unit again? Yeah?” Ben asked, chomping on the wet wheat. “I told you about how people are going to complain about the smell. They’re gonna cut the lock.”