The key didn’t just stick; it felt like it was fighting me. Metal ground against metal, a harsh, mechanical shriek that cut through the damp suburban silence of Oak Creek. I jiggled it again, desperation rising in my throat like bile.

“Mom?” Emma’s voice was small, a fragile sound that seemed to shatter in the cold October wind. “Why isn’t the door opening? I’m cold.”I looked down at my five-year-old daughter. She was clutching Mr. Whiskers, her stuffed cat that had lost one eye in the washing machine three years ago. Beside her, Liam, my seven-year-old, stood with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his parka. His jaw was set tight, a look of suspicion on his face that was far too old for a second grader. He was scanning the front porch, the windows, the driveway, looking for threats.

“Just a minute, sweetie,” I said, forcing a brightness into my voice that felt brittle, like it might snap if I pushed it too hard. “Maybe the key is just… cold. Like us.”

But I knew. The moment I looked at the lock, gleaming with the satin sheen of new brass against the weathered, darker metal of the handle, I knew.

And then I looked to the left.

There, piled on the curb like refuse awaiting the Tuesday morning garbage truck, were black trash bags. Dozens of them. They were wet from the morning drizzle, slumped over one another like exhausted bodies. A familiar flash of pink fabric poked out from a tear in one of the bags—Emma’s spare duvet, the one with the ballerinas on it.