When Chicken was finished with me, she trotted away, back into the labyrinth of the back rooms, and I set about raking up all the scattered papers.
Beneath the couch, however, the top of my hand brushed something cold. A bit of metal, stuck to the underside of the couch -- no, taped to the bare wood where the upholstery was stapled. I picked until it was free, and then held it to the light to examine.
It was a key: half the size of my pinky finger, heavy as a roll of quarters. The cuts in it were ornate and unusual, more like the backbone of an imaginary animal than the blade of a regular key. The to...
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