“No, it’s fine,” I said. “But I found a ring inside. Wedding ring. I’m trying to get it back to whoever donated the washer.”
Silence.
“You serious?” he asked.
“Pretty sure.”
“We don’t like to give out donor info.”
“I get that,” I said. “But my kid called it a forever ring. I gotta try.”
I heard papers shuffling.
“I remember that pickup,” he said. “Older lady. Her son had us haul it. She didn’t even charge us. Lemme check the sheet.”
He put the phone down. A minute passed.
“I’m not supposed to do this,” he said when he returned. “But if my ring was in there, I’d want someone to find me.”
He read me an address.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Hey,” he added, “you did the right thing, man.”
I hoped so.
The next afternoon, I bribed the teenage neighbor with pizza rolls to watch the kids for an hour and drove across town to a small brick house with chipped paint and a perfectly tended strip of flowers.
I knocked.
The door opened a few inches. An older woman peered out.
“Yes?”
“Hi,” I said. “Does Claire live here?”
Suspicion flickered across her face. “Who wants to know?”
“My name’s Graham. I think I bought your old washing machine.”
Her expression softened slightly. “That thing? My son said it was going to drown me in my sleep.”
“I can see how that could be a worry,” I said.
She smiled faintly. “What can I do for you, Graham?”
I reached into my pocket and held out the ring.
“Does this look familiar?”
