KEY OF X

I slumped against my house, clutching the bottle. Dead leaves blew through, (piano)rustling. I dripped water onto the grass. My brother was bending, was peering forward, was watching everything I was doing.

I (fortissimo)broke the bottle against my house.

Fingering through the broken glass, I didn’t find a key. I found a pair of keys. An iron key the length of a hand and a brass key the length of a finger. The bow of the iron key said X. The bow of the brass key said ROSE.

I stared at the X key. I stared at the ROSE key. Which was the key to the trunk? I already knew Grandpa Rose wouldn’t remember.

I changed into a dry sweatshirt. I stepped into wool socks. I wrapped myself in a blanket.

I was eating a plate of leftovers, my hands trembling still from all of the rowing, when I heard a (forte)tapping at the door.

Kayley Schreiber stood there among the whirling moths. She was wearing unlaced boots, mismatched socks, a shirt the size of a dress. The blotches on her cheeks were different, had changed shapes like drifting clouds. She was clutching a book of keynote speeches. Staring at me, her expression kept wavering, like there was some new string inside of her that she was trying to tune, some feeling that wasn’t quite yet at the right pitch. She handed me a folded note.

Before I could even speak, she shuffled into the darkness. I memorized the sound of her (decrescendo)footsteps. I liked every sound she had ever made.

I found a pencil. I drank some water. I sat at the table to translate the binary in the note.

But when I unfolded it, it wasn’t binary.

I had been given the black spot.