“My knees have been warning me since Easter.”

The clerk unlocked the inner gate and left us at the long table.

Box Nine sat in the wall at eye level, a narrow metal door with a keyhole the size of a pencil.

A ceiling fan turned without making a sound.

I put the old key in.

It stuck halfway.

I worked it back and forth, and my wrist began to ache.

“Turn it toward the floor,” Arthur said.