I brought the plastic card out and placed it on the counter between us. The boy leaned forward, eyes like magnets. The scarred woman examined the code without the pretense of asking.
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“They will?” The word carried a weight I could taste.
He lunged for a box of "Old Tech" in the back of his closet. Under a stack of floppy disks and a broken iPod, he found it: a scratched plastic jewel case. Taped to the back was a yellowed piece of masking tape with 25 faded characters.
He smiled—brief, almost approving. “Some mysteries are tools. Others are tests. Which do you think yours is?”
I opened the safe. The card stung under my tongue. I gave them a story about a lost envelope and a misaddressed post. They took photographs of my ledgers and scanned the notice board into a machine that hummed like an insect. I felt like I was being cataloged in a system I had only half agreed to join.