It thought I let another woman I loved keep a locked door, and look what was behind it.

“Please, not again,” I whispered to the empty room, rubbing my forehead hard.

“Please, please let there be a normal explanation for this.” That whisper was, I think, the truest thing I said all morning, and the saddest, because underneath all the movie-fueled panic about codes and maps and powders was just a frightened girl who had learned too young to be afraid of closed doors, and who was about to learn, in the most embarrassing way possible, that not every locked door hides a wound.

Some of them just hide flour.