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Ricky Williams mother had died when he was nine years old, and now his father had passed away during his freshman year in college. During Christmas break he would rather have been drinking and smoking dope with his friends rather than in his father's house, no make that his house, going through his father's belongings deciding what to keep, what to sell, what to give away, and what to throw away. He marveled at the amount of junk a person accumulates during their lifetime. He had started in the attic, and worked his way down. He had already chosen and boxed everything and was now in the basement and almost finished going through the last few boxes stacked in a corner of the last few boxes and crates. The first was a carton holding some of his mother's clothing, nothing special, but brought back memories of her, now made vague by time. She was a small woman, blonde and slight of frame. However, she was always kind and protective of him. Not so his father, he was a strict disciplinarian, Ricky could still feel the sting of his belt on his butt after he had been caught after a boyish prank. He searched through the box, and finding nothing of real interest, pushed it to the pile of things that he intended to donate to a used reseller.

Then an old chest in the corner of the final pile, hidden behind and under several corrugated boxes, he spied a wooden chest. Blackened with age, the wood was still strong, but the metal findings had given up the ghost to rust. It was locked with an old padlock that even if he had a key, it would have been useless in the corroded mass of steel. He ...

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