I slipped the brass key across the table at the closing. The realtor slid it into her envelope without looking up.
Now it's after midnight. I'm at the diner on Main, nursing a coffee in the slow hour between lunch and dinner service. The place is empty except for me and the cook watching a tiny TV.
I unfold the old map I keep in the truck. There's one route highlighted in yellow marker, from the job site to the house I used to own. I trace it with my finger.
The kids are at my sister's tonight. She said they need a break from the motel room. I couldn't argue.
I don't know why I kept the map. The house is gone. The key is gone. But I still want to know which turn I missed.
The cook flips the sign to closed. I fold the map and slide it into my pocket.
Some thoughts only come after midnight, when the work is done and the kids are asleep somewhere else.
I pay and step out into the casino town's neon glow. The key is already someone else's brass. But the route is still mine.