A Frontier Perimeter

The quiet entryway felt too narrow, so I slipped out past the porch to reconnoiter the yard. Along the base of the weathered timber fence, I found an old rusted padlock half-buried in dry gravel. I stepped onto a flat stone and knelt, wiping loose dirt from its weathered brass cylinder with my gloved thumb. The shackle was frozen solid with grit. I pressed against the tumbler, testing its tolerance with measured pressure until a faint click rewarded my patience. It will never lock again, but out here along the boundary, honest iron still commands respect.