I attempted to open my bedroom door but it resisted. I looked up and down but couldn’t figure out what the problem was. Strange, because the door certainly wasn’t locked. I had the key in my little pocket. I twiddled with it, the little key in my little pocket. Besides, if anyone had tried to lock it from the inside, the culprit would surely still be inside, waiting. Cornered. Who could have locked it? Certainly not me. I was trying to get in, to go to bed. It’d been a long day; the boss was on my back as usual, hassling me about certain reports whose deadlines were looming. I pushed against the door with my hip and shoulder, the wood cracked, but the door stuck fast. Strange. I went into my kitchen, stuck my head out the window, and looked down at the street. The phone rang. “Hello,” I answered immediately. “Hello, is this Mr. Rundt?” A voice said. “Speaking. How can I help you?” I said. “We received a report that you have been sheltering several forgers in your apartment. Is this correct?” “That’s impossible,” I said. I couldn’t believe the accusation. “That’s totally impossible. I live alone, I sleep on a twin bed, and I can barely care for my pet turtle, who sleeps in a cabinet above my stove.” “Then you wouldn’t mind if we dropped by and performed a cursory search of your unit?” The voice asked. “I beg your pardon?” “Your apartment, Mr. Rundt,” he said, getting frustrated. “Your unit.” “Well, no,” I said, searching my kitchen for clues, ideas, anything, but seeing only the issue at hand. “But you see there’s a bit of a hubbub with my apartment right now — I’m sorry, my unit. My bedroom door is stuck shut.” “Your bedroom door is stuck shut?” He repeated loudly, surely to capture the statement on tape. “That’s right,” I said. “Stuck as a door nail.” He didn’t seem to find that funny. Instead, he let out a satisfied sigh, no doubt a signal to his colleagues listening. “I’m sure, Mr. Rundt, you can understand that a statement like that sounds a bit suspicious.” “Certainly,” I said. “There's no doubt about that. I’m sure I sound like a certified cuckoo clock, but I’ve nothing else to add to the matter. I’ve spoken the truth. So, if that’ll be all, I’m sure you already have my address and have sent four heavily-armed men to my apartment. Pardon me, my unit. I’ll be waiting for your arrival. Goodbye.” I sat down and read the paper, boiled some water, and installed a new set of batteries inside my smoke alarm. The thrill of routine maintenance cannot be exaggerated. The doorbell rang. “Who is it?” I said. “It’s us,” the voice said. “It’s the police.” I opened the door and observed four armed foot soldiers. “We have orders to search your unit.” “You mean my apartment?” “Your unit.” But before I could attempt any further tête-à-tête with the leader, all four of them rushed toward my bedroom door and reached to open it. This time, however, hardly any pressure was needed, the force at which they pushed made it fly right open. They gained entry into the bedroom as if they had the key; strange, because I could no longer feel it in my little pocket. In fact, I didn’t have any pockets at the moment, as far as I could tell.