contained?
This old garage verily begged me to stop and photograph it. The lock on the doors seemed superfluous; they were rotted and falling off their hinges. With a little imagination, the story for the lock and the doors might go like this:
. . . The banging and rattling was making her head hurt more, something she didn’t think was possible. Thinking clearly was so difficult. The new lock on the old doors would hold him, wouldn’t it? Maybe the lock would hold, but she hadn’t considered the old and rusting hinges. If he got out now, as mad as he was (in more ways than one), she was in serious danger.
Pressing the ice pack more tightly to her forehead, she rose from the old tattered arm chair and moved cautiously toward the old garage. If she could just steal a quick glance at the old doors, without him sensing her, she might know if she could lay down and sleep for a while and ease the tightness in her head a little. . . .
