Warm

By Kristina Peterson

The padlock is warm.

I press my ear to the wood and hear a low, rhythmic breathing. I tell myself: generator. Old pipes. The settling of things.

I have the homeowner’s number, but I don’t call. Instead, I stand in the wet grass, counting the sounds. Seven. Eight. A pause. Then nine.

On the kitchen counter, her note says, Make yourself at home. It says, Help yourself to anything. It does not mention the shed.

I go inside and lock the door. I don’t see the second note, written in the same handwriting: If the breathing stops, don’t open the shed.