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M oving was exhausting, even with professional help.

It didn’t help matters that the moving company’s truck had been delayed—causing me to sleep on the floor for two nights—and now they were on my ass to get everything unloaded that day since the crew was expected on another job the next.

Had I caused the delay? No. But, apparently, it was my job to reschedule important appointments I’d had in order to accommodate their—now tight—schedule.

My consolation prize was that I’d be able to sleep in my bed that night, instead of on an air mattress that I suspected had a slow leak.

Workers’ voices came from inside as the guys on furniture duty assembled and placed the larger items. Meanwhile, I stood on the lawn near the truck, ready to answer questions about which boxes went where.

Moving homes was hard enough, but I was also moving my business, which included any stock left over after my flash sale. That meant that in addition to the usual boxes marked ‘bedroom’ or ‘kitchen,’ I also had labels such as ‘NB-CB-01’ or ‘S-AST-03.’

The movers had figured out that most of my stock labels were going into the storage section of my garage, but they still had enough questions that I didn’t feel I could leave them to deal with it on their own, either.

I ran through my to-do list in my head as I watched them work. My priority was getting everything legal so I could resume business. That meant getting my business license and tax information. I’d need to find an accountant and migrate all my shipping accounts to reflect my new address.

After that, I’d be able to bring in stock that I put on hold for the move—especially my Christmas designs. Any other year, I would already have them on hand and ready for the holiday season.

September was definitely the wrong time of year for a small business to move.

A familiar rumble caught my attention, and I looked up to see an orange DRU truck pull onto the cul-de-sac. The driver made his way around the moving van and stopped at a house in the circle.

“Mr. Planche?” one of the movers asked.

“Yes?” I replied, returning my attention to the task at hand.

“Where do you want these? They’re labeled ‘printing errors.’”

I blew out a long breath. “In the storage area, on the wall opposite the other stock, if possible.”

The man nodded and wheeled his hand truck into the garage.

Another rumble sounded. At first, I thought it was the DRU truck leaving, then realized I was hearing it in stereo. I glanced at the intersection to see a bright green ShipUS truck pulling onto the street, just as the DRU truck started moving on the other side.

I blinked and wondered how often the deliveries were so close. It would make my life easier if I knew I had mornings free.

Another question from one of the workers. When I turned back to face the road, the DRU truck had pulled back out onto the main street, and the ShipUS truck had stopped at a house for its delivery.

A shiver ran down my spine, despite the warmth of the day.

I shook off the sudden chill, pushed up my glasses, and returned my attention to the task at hand. There was a lot to do, and I couldn’t allow myself to get distracted.