Open by describing what you're looking at. Push off from this if it helps: a locked door in a building you work in.

You kicked it? Idiot. You’re going to break your toe. Look at the frame. See that splinter? It wasn’t forced. It was locked from the inside. I remember when we could just push through, back when the hinges didn’t squeal like a dying cat. Now you’re standing there, breathing hard, watching the dust settle. It’s not about the door, Edie. It never was. You’re just mad the handle didn’t turn. Stop staring at the wood. It’s just paint. Peeling. Useless. We used to have keys. Now we have scuff marks. That’s progress, apparently.

Rotting. Right. Because nothing says “present crisis” like architectural decay. I’m not afraid. I’m tired. My back’s been killing me since that shift at the warehouse—twelve hours lifting boxes nobody needed. And now I’m standing here with you, analyzing humidity. Look at the hinges. They’re rusted through. That’s the problem. Not the “rot.” Just bad maintenance. Like always. You think water is the enemy? Try having a manager who doesn’t care if the roof leaks. At least the roof stays up. Usually. Now stop looking at the floor. Look at me. I’m not nostalgic. I’m just… used to things breaking quietly. This is loud.

My foot hurts too. From standing here. Watching you swing. Stop. You’re going to strip the screws. Look at the wood around the strike plate. It’s soft. Like cheese. If you force it, the whole frame collapses. I’ve seen it happen. At the old plant. Before they fixed the humidity controls. Or didn’t. Who cares. Just… hold still. Let me see the latch. I used to carry oil in my pocket. For my bike. Or my watch. Doesn’t matter. The mechanism is seized. That’s the fact. Not the nostalgia. Not the foot. Just metal. Rusty. Cold. And you’re kicking it. Again. Stop. Please. It’s loud. It’s just… loud.

Drawer’s stuck. You know it’s stuck. You hit it with the hammer last week. It didn’t move. Now you’re talking about screwdrivers? Please. The hinges are the issue. Not the door. Not the floor. The metal. It’s seized. I’m not overreacting. I’m exhausted. My hands are shaking. Look at them. Trembling. Like they did when the foreman fired Miller. But Miller left. We’re still here. With the cold handle. And the peeling paint. Go to the drawer. Break it. See what happens. I’ll be here. Watching the dust. It’s not quiet. It’s just… waiting. For you to stop.

You’ll never reach the stairwell. The stairs are flooded. You know that. I saw the water seeping under the door last week. Just a trickle. Now? It’s a river. You go out there, you drown. Or slip. And then who fixes it? Not me. I’m done fixing things. You want the axe? Fine. Go get it. But don’t come back here when it’s gone. Don’t come back when the water is up to your knees. I’m not moving. I’m staying right here. Watching the rust. It’s spreading. Can you see it? The orange bloom. It’s beautiful, in a way. Like a wound. You’re bleeding out. And I’m just… watching.

Card’s gone. Lost it. Or maybe I ate it. I don’t remember. Just plastic fragments. In my pocket. With gum. You want a shim? Use a spoon. Or your fingernail. I can’t find the card. Stop looking at me. I’m not helping. You’re kneeling in the dust. Look at your knees. Gray. You look like a statue. A broken one. We used to have tools. Real ones. Heavy. Now we have plastic and hope. That’s stupid. You’re sliding your hand under. It’s cold. The floor is wet. I told you. The water. It’s under the door. It’s coming in. Slowly. Like rust. Like time. You’re shimmying it. Nothing happens. Just friction. Just you. Alone. With the cold wood. Stop. Please. It’s useless. It’s all useless.