The Thunk

You turn the pick a little and stop. A little more. Something gives, and the lock drops open with a low dry thunk, brass on brass, and the door settles a quarter inch in its frame.

You expected a room. It is a cupboard, with a corduroy coat on a wire hanger, one button sewn on in red thread that does not match the others. It smells of pencil shavings and, under that, of the creek. In the inside pocket there is a card, cream stock, one word on it in blue: WHOEVER. On the back, in pencil: Library slot. Ice house, 3:10.

You take the card. You press the button flat with your thumb and straighten the coat on its hanger before you shut the door. Outside the gate, something small rings on the pavement.

The second lock gives at the same place in the turn, with the same thunk. So does the third. You leave the other ten.