Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

8
N A T
H
eart pounding, I stare at the key. It’s nondescript,
completely average looking. There’s nothing
unusual about it that I can tell.
I turn it over. Engraved on the other side at the top is a
series of numbers: 30-01.
That’s it.
There’s no note in the envelope. There’s nothing else but
this damn silver key, which could open anything from a front
door to a padlock. I have no way of knowing.
What the hell, David? What is this?
After several minutes of staring at it in confusion, I rise
and head to my laptop. It’s on the kitchen counter. I have to
step over Mojo snoozing in the middle of the floor on the way.
I fire up the Mac and google “How to identify a key I
found.”
The search returns more than 900,000,000 results.
The first page has advice from locksmiths and key
manufacturers, along with images of various types of keys. I
click on the images, but a quick scan reveals nothing that
looks like the key in my hand. The manufacturer websites
aren’t helpful, either.
I think for a minute, then turn to the junk drawer and pull it
open.