The quiet after the lockout

I just finished a job where someone locked themselves out of their own flat—again. The dog sat on the step, ears low, like it knew this was the third time this month. I opened the door and handed back the key, but the real thing wasn’t the mechanism. It was how the woman looked at me—like she’d been waiting for someone to notice the weight in her shoulders. The lock doesn’t care. But the dog does. And so do I.