The brass house keys lay safely in the shallow emergency drawer next to the yellow notepad, right where they were supposed to be.

I pulled open the heavy outside door and stepped out into the dark air of the back porch in my thick wool sweater. The winter night was deep and still, carrying nothing but the faint smell of woodsmoke from chimneys down the block.

I turned to face the sturdy doorframe and reached my right hand out to the heavy new brass hardware the locksmith had put in three days earlier.

I slowly turned the heavy brass thumb latch until it hit the very end of its track. The deadbolt slid home with a clean brass click, and the house stayed perfectly warm.

Through the lighted glass of the living room window, I could hear my father’s low voice reading the story of the mountain train, soft and steady in the quiet room.

A fine white layer of snow dusted the dark, clean driveway, completely untouched all the way down to the empty street.