A shadow blocked the thin strip of yellow light from the hallway.

Something small and metallic slid across the threshold, catching the dim light of the nightlight.

It was a heavy, old-fashioned brass key.

Attached to it was a strip of white medical tape with a single word written in thick black marker.

I knelt down, keeping Leo secure against my chest, and picked it up.

The cold metal bit into my palm as I read the handwriting.

“Freezer,” I whispered, holding it up for Lorenzo to see.

Before he could take it, a faint, rhythmic tapping began on the other side of the heavy wood.

Three quick taps, followed by two slow ones.

The exact signal my brother Evan used to use when we were children.

Lorenzo stared at the key in my hand, then at the heavy mahogany door.

“Evan,” I whispered.

He didn’t answer, but his hand reached out and took the heavy brass key from my palm.

The metal was cold and slightly greasy, smelling faintly of machine oil and copper.

He stepped closer to the thick door, his boots making no sound on the plush nursery rug.