Kent Changed The Locks While My Last Casting Was Still Cooling

My key stopped halfway into the studio lock. Inside, beyond the wired glass, six students stood around my workbench. Kent Barlow had his good jacket on.

He saw me and kept talking.

“Selam handled the furnace,” he told them. “Think of her as our kiln attendant. I'll be taking the business forward.”

My name was Selam Abebe. I was thirty-nine, an Ethiopian American glass caster, and I had built the classes those people had paid to take.

I was a broad-shouldered woman with dark brown skin, close black curls, and a pale burn mark across my left wrist.

That morning, I wore my old work shirt. Glass dust had settled along its seams. There was nothing on me worth what Kent's jacket cost, unless you counted my hands.

I knocked.

Kent opened the door about six inches. He was forty-four, white, and my business partner in River Hearth Glass LLC.

Kent had sandy hair combed flat, pink cheeks, and a small smile that made every request sound like a favor.

“You should have called,” he said.

“My wax model is inside. So is my furnace.”

His smile widened.

“Our furnace. My investment bought the equipment. Don't make this hard in front of customers.”

Kent promoted our workshops. He could sell a seat beside a hot furnace as if he were offering a cool drink. He was charming whenever someone else paid.

“Move your hand,” I said.

“You're upset.”

“I'm asking for access to my property.”

Behind him, Ezra Bell stepped away from the workbench. At twenty-eight, he was my apprentice, a Black man who could lift a loaded mold without shaking. His voice shook when he faced Kent.

“Her bowl's still in the annealer,” he said. “It has another day.”

“I'll handle it,” Kent told him.

I looked past Kent at the controller. The annealer held finished work at a set heat, then cooled it slowly. Cutting its power could crack three weeks of work.

“Leave that program running,” I said. “Ezra, photograph the display at noon.”

Kent started to close the door.

“Send your request by email.”

The new latch clicked before I could answer.

Outside, Fort Wayne's March wind pushed a paper cup along the curb. A truck crossed the railroad tracks beyond our block, each wheel making the same dull knock.

I stood there until my face cooled.

When I judged furnace heat, I hummed one low note. It slowed my breathing while I watched the glass soften through the port. The controller gave me a number. The glass told me whether that number meant anything.

I hummed that note beside the locked door.

Kent had confused being quiet with having nothing to say.

At home, I pulled a dented blue cash box from my linen closet. Under my mother's old tablecloth lay a narrow installment book with a cloth spine.

The cover said RUIZ HOT SHOP, EQUIPMENT ACCOUNT.

Inside, twenty-four rows showed payments of $600. There was a serial number on the first page: R-614. On the last row, beside April 12, 2019, Paloma Ruiz had written PAID IN FULL.

Our company had been formed that July.

I set the book on my kitchen table. Beside it, I placed the company agreement and an equipment-use schedule. Both carried Kent's signature.

He had once called that schedule a waste of paper.

“We're partners,” he had said. “You don't need a fence around every wrench.”

“Then signing shouldn't bother you,” I'd told him.

My phone buzzed. Ezra had sent a picture of the annealer display, followed by a message.

He told the students you used to sweep up here.

I typed: Keep the cooling log. Don't argue with him.

Three dots appeared, vanished, then returned.

He wants me to change the teacher name on the summer receipts.

We had never agreed to summer classes. Kent and I usually checked the building lease before posting dates. Our current term ended May 31.

I asked Ezra to save any receipt he had already been given for his work. I told him not to enter Kent's email or take anything from a locked drawer.

Then I called Paloma.

“Did something break?” she asked.

“Kent says his investment bought your furnace.”

She made a short, flat sound.

“His investment wasn't around when your second payment was late.”

“It was four days.”

“Five. I remember unpaid debts.”

Paloma was fifty-seven, Mexican American, and the least willing person I knew to sweeten a fact. She had sold me the furnace when she closed her casting shop.

“I still have my book,” I said.

“Of course you do. So do I.”

She paused.

“I'll bring the duplicate tomorrow. And Selam? Tell him to leave the serial plate alone.”