“Thrift Barn,” a guy answered, sounding bored.
“Hi, this is Graham. I bought a washing machine from you earlier today. The sixty-dollar one, as-is.”
He snorted. “It break already?”
“No, actually it works fine,” I said. “But I found something inside it. A wedding ring. I’m trying to return it to whoever donated the machine.”
There was a long pause.
“You’re serious?” he asked, his tone completely changed.
“Yeah, I’m serious. It’s engraved. Clearly meant something to someone.”
“Man, we don’t usually give out donor information,” he said. “Privacy and all that.”
“I understand,” I said. “But look, my eight-year-old daughter called it a ‘forever ring,’ and now I can’t not try to find the owner. I have to at least try.”
I heard papers shuffling in the background.
“I remember that pickup,” he said finally. “Older lady. Her son arranged the donation—had us come haul it away. She didn’t even charge us for it, just wanted it gone.”
More shuffling.
