The neighborhood streets were quiet when I pulled into our driveway at ten minutes to eleven.

A white commercial van pulled up behind my car.

James, a locksmith carrying a grey toolbox and wearing a work shirt with a Community First Bank authorization badge, stepped out onto the gravel driveway.

“This is the house listed on the court order?” James asked.

“Yes,” I said, handing him the legal paper Rebecca had printed for me.

“The front door deadbolt only.”

He took five minutes with a screwdriver and a power tool to remove the old brass cylinder from the front door.