He felt the bruise over his ear. It was tender to the touch, but nothing worse. He had blacked out for a minute. Well, Julie had warned him not to go into the attic alone. The last time, he had fallen ten feet and broken his leg in two places. It was a bitch of an injury. Four years in the heat and danger of Afghanistan without a scratch, but in one of his first flips, he almost incapacitated himself. No Purple Heart in flipping houses. He rubbed the permanent bump in his shin, wincing at its tenderness. Maybe he should listen to her, maybe not. It was stifling up there, with the acrid smell of dry wood and insects. Using his phone as a flashlight, he lit a path, his mouth open with wonder. It was a treasure trove of furniture, bronzes, boxes of dishes, Majolica ware, Wedgwood china, and rows and rows of belongings from different eras. Brad smiled; this could be life changing. He wove between the aisles, opening a box here, moving a painting there, knowing it was going to take weeks to go through and catalog all the material.
