The Fourth Lock

The fourth lock gives early. It is a light thunk with nothing under it, and when you lean on it the pick slips. Three times. Then the pins drop back to where they were. They are always where they were. You start again and let the early one go by.

The real one is farther along than you want, and heavier. The door settles in its frame.

You expected a cupboard. A square of morning sun lies on the floor, cut into four panes by the shadow of a window sash. There is no window. The light is warm on the back of your hand, and it moves while you watch.

You do the next five. A rake with wet leaves in its tines. Marigolds hung upside down to dry. A space heater, on, red, its cord coiled on top of it. A draft that smells of woodsmoke. Pecan shells swept into a spiral on the boards.

At the tenth every other pin will not hold. You lean on the cylinder with the heel of your other hand, a little, as if you meant to turn it, and they hold. The wrist you lean with starts to ache.