The Lower Quarter

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Taped into stiff brown paper, the small painting sat atop her feet, tilted against her shins — a slight felt weight. Johanna worked the padlock’s combination with the precise strength of someone who gardens or sews, though she practiced neither skill, and uncoiled the length of chain she had used five weeks earlier to secure her workshop door’s handles. Lifting the painting to her hip with one arm, she pulled open the door with the other. The room released the dank smell of earth turned inside out, of something brought up that should have been left buried.

Water stains bloomed on the walls like flat moss, and moisture coated the floorboards, staining the wood darker. She inspected for pooled water and loose wires before touching the fuse box. The damage appeared to be two-dimensional — not lethal, not here. She carried the painting upstairs to the spare living space squatting between her first-floor workshop and the building’s roof, laying the canvas flat on her table with the regard she gave to every painting under her care, this one no less.

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