Three Baby Cribs and a Missing Set of Car Keys
“It looks smaller than I remembered,” my mother said, adjusting her glasses as she stared at the front door.
“It is exactly the same size,” Shaun said, getting out of the driver’s seat and walking toward the old detached garage.
I opened my door and stepped onto the gravel, carrying Soleil’s carrier in my right hand while my mother took the other two. The air here smelled different, cleaner than the suburban streets, with a faint hint of pine and damp earth.
Shaun pushed open the side door of the garage, the old wooden panels groaning as they dragged against the dirt floor. The interior was dark, lit only by the dusty light filtering through a high, cobwebbed window.
On a wooden workbench in the back, half-hidden under an old canvas tarp, sat a heavy, rusty metal toolbox. Shaun reached out and cleared the dust off the top with his sleeve, revealing the initials of our grandfather carved into the steel.
“He left everything in here,” Shaun said, lifting the latch with a loud metallic click.
“Is there enough to fix the plumbing?” I asked, peering over his shoulder into the dark box.
