The scratch of the bristles on the rough asphalt was the only sound on the entire block.

When the driveway was clear, I leaned the broom tidily against the porch railing beside the woodbox.

I reached into my sweater pocket and took out my key ring.

The one original brass house key lay heavy in my palm, cold from the October air.

I slid the key into the front door lock, turned it right until the deadbolt clicked home, and then turned it back to the left.

The bolt slid smoothly and easily in the strike plate without snagging on the frame.