The next time I saw Lindsey
was later that afternoon.
I did not want to get any angrier,
so I kept my distance.
I couldn’t help watching her anyway.
She wore her frightened
expression again—that “pity-me” face.
Something was clenched in her fist.
I saw the glint of metal as she opened her hand
to put it in her backpack.
It was a key. A normal silver key.
Lindsey had been gripping it so tightly
that a locksmith could make a copy of the key
just from the imprint of its serrations on her hand.
What lock does it open?