The yellow cab idling in the driveway smelled of diesel, stale air, and wet autumn leaves.

When I slid my brass key tagged 1994 into the front deadbolt at 412 Maple Street, the cylinder didn’t budge a single millimeter.

The cab driver hauled my heavy green canvas duffel bag out of the trunk, set it down on the top wooden plank of the porch, and stood there waiting with his engine running.

“Key giving you trouble?” he asked, wiping the rain off his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

“They changed the lock,” I said.

I twisted the heavy silver ring on my right thumb twice, feeling its notched metal edge dig into my skin.

Nine months of overseas deployment came to an end at four o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, on the porch of the craftsman-style house in Oak Ridge, Ohio.

Could I get back my stolen home and my back pay without wrecking my military career?

That was the real question waiting on the other side of the door before I’d even stepped inside.

The driver nodded, took his tip, and got back into his cab.

I knocked on the thick oak panels three times, firm and even.

Quick, light footsteps clicked across the hardwood inside.

The front door opened six inches and stopped, held by a brass security chain I’d never seen on that frame before.

My mother, Evelyn, peered through the narrow gap, her right hand going straight up to straighten her double-strand pearl necklace.

Her smile spread wide, but her eyes stayed wide open and never blinked.

“You’re back sooner than we thought,” she said.

She slipped the brass chain off and swung the door wide onto the hallway.

Four heavy black garbage bags were piled against the wall of the front hall, jammed in between the coat rack and the bottom stair.