I said, “
Family.”
He nodded like that explained more than enough.
By 5:30 that evening, a locksmith named Roman was standing on my front porch, drilling out the old lock. He was a quiet man in his fifties with silver hair and careful hands. While he worked, he said, “Most people think a lock keeps strangers out. That is only half true.”
“What is the other half?”
“A lock reminds people they need permission.”
I stood behind him with a mug of coffee I had not drunk.
“That is exactly what I need.”
He handed me the new keys when he finished. Four keys on a plain steel ring. Front door. Back door. Side door. Boathouse.
“Only you?” he asked.
“Only me.”
“No spare under flowerpot?”
“No.”
“No mother with extra copy?”
I looked at him.
He smiled faintly. “I have worked with families before.”
That night, while the new alarm
