A locksmith’s van pulled away from the curb two cars ahead of me.

The blue lettering on its side read Pete’s Lock and Key.

At my apartment that evening, I switched on the glass table lamp and laid the loan page beneath it.

The forged signature sat in the center of the page, blue ink, a hard downstroke on the S.

I opened the shoebox of cards I had never thrown out.

Victoria’s birthday card from last October was on top.

The envelope said Sienna in her slanted handwriting.