He looks at the lock, gives away another moment. He turns the key back to the left, then to the right, then to the left, then back to the right. A copy of a copy, maybe of a copy. The tumblers are oiled. He's tried that before. The door is not binding. The lock is just tired. Up all night, watching this place. Ready all day, when he goes to lunch, out for a Service. The mechanism is full of shaved brass memories. They grind and remember previous owners, former employees, the Sheriff or his Deputies. He adjusts his grip and presses down on the key. This is the password. The lock lets him in.

He walks across the garage and unlocks the office door. This lock is new. This lock is easy. He puts down his newspaper, he pushes #73 and takes the phones back from the Answering Service. He gets out a pen and calls Dorothy. "Hi, I'm in. Any messages?"

For 25 years she has been the first person he talks to once he is at the office. Most days, she is the only person he talks to. He reviews the files. What there is to do. There is an order to things. A dependable, check list kind of efficiency that frees him to wait for something else to do. So, he cleans. He dusts, he vaccuums, he straightens, he polishes. He gardens, edging and mowing, pruning and snipping. He picks up leaves. He sweeps the sidewalk. Done with that, he might wash the cars.