Nobody wanted Lot 44.
The Norfolk military and law enforcement surplus auction had been set up inside a cold warehouse where wet concrete, bleach, rust, and nervous animals mixed into one hard smell.
Old patrol cars sat beneath gray light.
Decommissioned tactical vests hung from metal racks.
Crates of outdated gear lined the walls.
And at the back of the building, behind reinforced doors and steel barriers, the living assets waited to be handled like inventory.
Connor Hayes stood near the highest row of bleachers with one hand wrapped around a steel railing.
His right leg had started aching an hour earlier, first as a dull throb, then as the familiar burning line that ran from his hip to his knee when he stood too long.
He did not sit down.
At twenty-six, he was supposed to be in the prime of his life.
That was what people kept telling him when they wanted to be encouraging.
