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The smaller of the two wooden boxes was a puzzle-carving, similar to one she had in her room. She felt a strange thrill of triumph at finding inside the expected portraits of great-grandparents, two sets of them mounted in lockets. But there was also a folded piece of paper, crisp with age and addressed to “Meya;” and a dried flowerbud, speared on a long pin tied about with faded ribbon. She could have imagined what was in the letter, or how the flower might have looked in its prime, pinned to an old-fashioned hat or dress, had she not felt so suddenly and hopelessly alone. It had been nice, at first, to know that someone had loved someone, many times before she had come about, but now their fingerprints were no comfort.

In the last box, she found a book. It looked like a book, anyway; there was no title on the piece of leather that might have been the cover, and the pages beneath were unbound. She lifted the cover, cautiously, and was relieved when nothing tore. Unfortunately, the printed pages, though in perfectly good condition, contained nothing but nonsense. She had no idea why her parents would even keep such a thing, let alone in the safe. Certainly not to read about gray birds and dark fingers. Still, she thought she should save it, if only because they had. Feeling ashamed at feeling disappointed, Darica put the lid back on the box and replaced everything in the safe.

She was about to close the door when it struck her that her parents might not have meant what she thought. What if she wasn’t being reminded to look into the safe, but to add to it? To protect everything of value, monetary and sentimental, in case the building couldn’t? Everything was there to start a new life if the old one were destroyed—everything, she realized, except money. And if banks were going to stay closed for business for any length of time, history told her that money would mean something entirely different. Paintings and sculptures were too big to fit; it would have to be the smallest valuables she could find.