Headlights. A tween boy scampers from the passenger door to the station to copy the family house key, his newly earned responsibility.
The hut spurs to life, tracing then cutting out the duplicate. Grinding, whirring, screaming. The boy creeps back.
Sudden silence. A soft whine. Then the key. His fingers grasp the notches, picking at a grizzly piece of skin caught between the groves.