The house sat gray and quiet under the sky, its long front porch sagging toward the ground near the old concrete cistern lid.

Nate parked the truck by the dead lilac bush and turned off the engine.

We walked through the knee-high grass to the front steps.

Nate took the iron ring out of his coat pocket, seven dark keys clinking together in his palm.

“Which one first?” he asked.

“Try the heavy one with the square tooth,” I said.

He stepped up onto the porch, the old pine boards creaking under his boots.

He pushed the first key into the heavy iron rim lock on the front door.