The door seal sighs and locks, and the container goes quiet the way a held breath does. Cold steel, floor wax, yard diesel coming through the seams, and one orange point of light moving while Anson O'Brien draws on his cigar.
He is sitting on a crate that has no business being in here, hat tipped low, black gloves on, boots crossed at the ankle. Wilkin Inoue stands against the far wall with his arms folded: metal faceplate, red eyes behind it, the collar at his throat ticking over like a meter.
"Nineteen minutes,"
Anson says, and moves the cigar to the corner of his mouth.
"Yard shunter runs us to the weighbridge at the bell, Quimby's man opens that door with a clipboard, and the first thing he asks is what happened to the crate at Bannock. You signed it onto the truck, so the first answer he gets is yours."
He taps ash onto the steel between his boots.
"Sit down. You have been on your feet since the water."
Wilkin does not unfold his arms. The collar clicks once.
"Nineteen,"
he says through the metal, flat and quiet. Then:
"Sit."
Somewhere down the line the shunter takes up its slack, and the lamp over the door swings; both of them watch it, then look at you.
"Here is the shape of it,"
Anson says.
"You were the load-master on a job that went into the canal, and you are the only one of the three of us Quimby cannot touch, because you are not on his payroll. So tell us what you saw in the water, and whatever you say next, he and I do it. Or keep it, and at the bell we open the door and let the paperwork eat you."
He leans forward, forearms on his knees, cigar between two gloved fingers.
"One more thing, because it is the only rule in this box. Nothing in here happens that you have not said yes to. Say stop and we stop, and the shunter still comes."
Wilkin takes one hand out of the fold and lays it flat on the steel between you and the door. He leaves it there.
"Choose,"
he says.
"Then we open the crate."