Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

inside there was a key. What the, what the? It was a weird-looking key, obviously to something extremely important, because it was fatter and shorter than a normal key. I couldn't explain it: a fat and short key, in a little envelope, in a blue vase, on the highest shelf in his closet.
    The first thing I did was the logical thing, which was to be very secretive and try the key in all of the locks in the apartment. Even without trying I knew it wasn't for the front door, because it didn't match up with the key that I wear on a string around my neck to let myself in when nobody's home. I tiptoed so I wouldn't be noticed, and I tried the key in the door to the bathroom, and the different bedroom doors, and the drawers in Mom's dresser. I tried it in the desk in the kitchen where Dad used to pay the bills, and in the closet next to the linen closet where I sometimes hid when we played hide and seek, and in Mom's jewelry box. But it wasn't for any of them.
    In bed that night I invented a special drain that would be underneath every pillow in New York, and would connect to the reservoir. Whenever people cried themselves to sleep, the tears would all go to the same place, and in the morning the weatherman could report if the water level of the Reservoir of Tears had gone up or down, and you could know if New York was in heavy boots. And when something really terrible happened—like a nuclear bomb, or at least a biological weapons attack—an extremely loud siren would go off, telling everyone to get to Central Park to put sandbags around the reservoir.
    Anyway.
    The next morning I told Mom that I couldn't go to school, because I was too sick. It was the first lie that I had to tell. She put her hand on my forehead and said, “You do feel a bit hot.” I said, “I took my temperature and it's one hundred point seven degrees.” That was the second lie. She turned around and asked me to zip up the back of her dress, which she could have done herself, but she knew that I loved to do it. She said, “I'll be in and out of meetings all day, but Grandma can come by if you need anything, and I'll call to check on you every hour.” I told her, “If I don't answer, I'm probably sleeping or going to the bathroom.” She said, “Answer.”
    Once she left for work, I put on my clothes and went downstairs. Stan was sweeping up in front of the building. I tried to get past him without him noticing, but he noticed. “You don't look sick,” he said, brushing a bunch of leaves into the street. I told him, “I feel sick.” He asked, “Where's Mr. Feeling Sick going?” I told him, “To the drugstore on Eighty-fourth to get some cough drops.” Lie #3. Where I actually went was the locksmith's store, which is Frazer and Sons, on Seventy-ninth.
    “Need some more copies?” Walt asked. I gave him a high-five, and I showed him the key that I had found, and asked him what he could tell me about it. “It's for some kind of lockbox,” he said, holding it up to his face and looking at it over his glasses. “A safe, I'm guessing. You can tell it's for a lockbox by its build.” He showed me a rack that had a ton of keys on it. “See, it's not like any of these. It's much thicker. Harder to break.” I touched all the keys that I could reach, and that made me feel OK, for some reason. “But it's not for a fixed safe, I don't think. Nothing too big. Maybe something portable. Could be a safe-deposit box, actually. An old one. Or some kind of fire-retardant cabinet.” That made me crack up a little, even though I know there's nothing funny about being a mental retard. “It's an old key,” he said. “Could be twenty, thirty years old.” “How can you tell?” “Keys are what I know.” “You're cool.” “And not many lockboxes use keys anymore.” “They don't?” “Well, hardly anyone uses keys anymore.” “I use keys,” I told him, and I showed him my apartment key. “I know you do,” he said. “But people like you are a dying breed. It's all electronic these days. Keypads. Thumbprint recognition.” “That's so awesome.” “I like keys.” I thought for a minute, and then I got heavy, heavy boots. “Well, if people like me are a dying breed, then what's going to happen to your business?” “We'll become specialized,” he said, “like a typewriter shop. We're useful now, but soon we'll be interesting.” “Maybe you need a new business.” “I like this business.”
    I said, “I have a question that I was