I came home from work one evening and found a toothpick jammed in my lock. Then it happened again. Picture me outside my own house, wielding tweezers like some deranged locksmith.
I didn’t report it. I set a trap… because if someone wanted to play weird little games, I had one better.
After 14 hours of bedpans, vomit, and a guy who insisted his “friend” was the one who “accidentally” sat on a remote control, I dragged my scrub-wearing, caffeine-depleted body home. All I wanted was a hot shower, half a frozen pizza, and blessed silence.
Instead, I found myself standing in thirty-degree weather, staring at my front door like it had just slapped me… because my key wouldn’t go in.
I tried again. Nothing.
Wiggled it. Nope. I turned it upside down because sometimes keys are just moody like that.
Still nothing worked.
“Come on,” I muttered, jiggling harder. “I’ve had patients at the ER less difficult than you today.”
That’s when I noticed something small wedged deep in the keyhole. I squinted, using my phone flashlight to get a better look.
There was a toothpick jammed in the lock.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groaned, poking at it helplessly with my car key. I jiggled, cursed, even tried poking it out with a bobby pin. Nothing worked.
Fifteen minutes later, I was still standing there with frozen toes and a colorful vocabulary that would make my patients blush.
I gave up and called my brother.
“Danny?
It’s me. I’m locked out.”
“Again? Did you lose your keys at the hospital?
Because last time—”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
TAP ” READ MORE ” 👇
