I walked over, knelt on the carpet, and pulled the rough wool aside.
The rusted padlock hung crookedly from the heavy iron latch, its ancient brass body dull from years in storage.
I reached out and touched the metal face of the lock.
Bright, silver gouges scored the yellow brass around the keyway, the marks fresh enough to leave tiny flakes of metal on my thumb.
Someone had worked a heavy tool against the casing, trying to force the cylinder.
The metal shavings were tiny, shining like spilled salt on the dark carpet fibers.
“Is something broken, Mom?”
Sophie stood in the doorway, her small fingers tugging the hem of her yellow shirt. Her voice was quick, breathless.
“The lock is just old,” I said, closing my palm over the shavings.
I rolled my left wrist, feeling the familiar, tight click in the joint while I looked at her.
“Did Uncle Travis come over yesterday?” she asked.
“That’s the one,” he said. “He had a tool in his hand but he cleared out when my screen door squeaked.”
I looked down at the gravel by my feet. There were fresh tire tracks near the culvert, wider than a standard sedan.
The tire iron was heavy and cold in my hand.
I carried it inside and set it on the kitchen counter next to a twelve-dollar grocery receipt.
The heavy piece of iron rested against the wooden cutting board, its dull grey surface scarred from years of hard use.
The hum of the window air conditioner filled the small kitchen, rattling the loose plastic trim on the side of the metal casing.
In the living room, the green metal military trunk sat in the corner behind the armchair, half-hidden by a folded wool blanket.
