We—Kai, Patrick, and I—finally arrived at the address provided by Patrick: storage unit number 115, surrounded by a row of uniform orange shutter units.
"Open it; pull up the shutters," I commanded Patrick, urgency tingling in my voice. With a nod, he complied, and the metallic shutters began their slow ascent, revealing what lay beyond.
The scene before me unfolded like a surreal tableau, nothing akin to what I had anticipated. It was a convergence of unexpected elements—neither the person who stood within nor the situation that greeted us seemed to align with any preconceived notions.
When I first heard about Patrick buying appliances like air conditioners, batteries, inverters, and food, along with jars of water, I assumed he was hiding someone inside the storage unit, doing his best
