When he knocked on the nearest crate to check for movement, it made no hollow sound, only a dense, heavy thud. He frowned. Furniture had air gaps, even with padding. This felt solid all the way through. As the rain hit him harder, he pushed the thought aside and tightened the strap another notch.
As he worked, something white dusted his gloves—a fine, powdery residue clinging to the crate. He rubbed his fingers together, sniffing. It wasn’t sawdust, nor anything he recognized. The smell was faint and almost metallic. He wiped it on his jeans, muttering under his breath.