It’s something with the keys. Ramshackle crew of russet, fawn and fox. So many notches cut. So many two-bit skeletons. A door, clicking shut. It’s something with the locks. A closing door, a turning key. And somewhere quite obscure, something working, sliding shut. Tick, tick, tick. It’s something in the gut – a skeleton clock, a turning cog. Something working, sliding shut. A small thing, clicking this way, moving there, and tallied with the keys. Your skeleton crew. One for every time you bent or broke yourself in two. The way that opens up. That way. Go.