I thought it was a stone at first, the scrape of metal against clunk. Kept digging and turning and if it wasn’t for the sun I would have missed it. But it caught itself a ray; yeah, Emily, a dazzle, nothing gradual about it, fleeting and blinding me quite still with its thin silver shaft. The spare key for the car – the one he lost last summer, he searched for it high and low but not here, not in the potato patch. When all the dirt was scraped out of the grooves, it grew warm in the palm of my hand.