Childtime Institutions (continued)

He visually inspected the car once more as he walked toward the front door. The lack of toys or other signs of recent outside activity continued to niggle at his mind.

He slid the key into the top lock, and old-fashioned manual kind. Very few of the houses still had working digital systems. Harlin had read several articles about how easily they could be hacked with simple car key remotes. He strongly suspected, though, that such talent was probably beyond the abilities of the gang members who controlled the area near enclave’s main entrance, so he did not worry much about that aspect of it. The truth was that they were too difficult and expensive to keep functioning. He knew of only one home in his immediate neighborhood that still relied on such a system, but then there were a great many rumors about that particular house.

It took a moment for it to register that the key did not turn as it should have in the lock. Momentarily disconcerted, he realized that it had already been unlocked. He withdrew the key and experimentally tried the other keyhole, finding that it too had not been locked. His chest tightened again. Mary never left the door unlocked—never, unless the children were outside. He took a half-step back and studied the door frame.

He could not tell whether it looked any different than it had before. Battered and dented from years of hard use—of toys, bicycles and packages being knocked against it—that he could discern any new damage to it. The paint appeared to be cracked or flaking in all of the same places. If someone had tried to force their way into house, he could not readily read the signs of such an intrusion. Still, with a growing knot in his throat, he turned the handle and slowly opened the door.

He opened it only slightly more than a hand’s breadth, pausing to listen to the interior. Silence greeted him—and that served only to disturb him further. He should have heard the voice of at least one of his children. Even if they were all gathered together watching a video stream, he should have heard that too. But he heard nothing.

His heart beat hard within his chest. Each beat thrummed through his body like a heavy bass beat from that music that so many of the teenagers seemed play to far too incredibly loud. He fought the temptation to throw himself through the doorway. If his family was inside, but simply being uncharacteristically quiet, he would look foolish. If intruders had entered his home, he might startle them . . . and that could end badly too. So, cautiously, he eased the door slowly open wider, peering into his home’s interior, and silently hoping that he was all nerves for nothing.