I reached past Caroline’s red sleeve and laid my fingers on the cold metal of the slide bar.

“If you open that door before dinner, Clara, you’re setting a terrible example,” my mother said.

She straightened her blouse collar with two quick, deliberate flicks of her knuckles.

The brass bar scraped across its mounting plate as I pulled it back.

The heavy oak door swung out into the hallway runner.

Inside, the closet smelled of paper bags, dry onions, and a cold concrete floor.

The overhead light was turned off.