The lock clicked, but before I could pull the tiny door open, a thick hand pressed flat against the metal frame.

Tom, the clerk from behind the glass, stood next to me with his chin tipped down.

“Can I help you with that box there, ma’am?” Tom asked.

“I’ve got the key,” I said.

Tom kept his hand on the box.

He held out his other hand and waited until I set the brass key in his palm.

“This box is registered under a different primary name,” Tom said.

“You’re not on the signature card for four twelve.”