“Oh my god, Cyrus, I don’t have the key,” I interject, raising my arms above my head like I’m walking through airport security. “If you still don’t believe me, you’re welcome to feel me up. Go on. Check my back pockets. See if the key is there.”

He flushes. Turns away. “I—I do believe you,” he says. “We should look for the key. It can’t have hopped out of the room on its own.”

But I’m starting to think that the key really did sprout a pair of tiny legs and make a run for it when we weren’t paying attention, because even after patting every inch of the floor and reaching into every odd crack and nook, it remains nowhere to be found.

“This is the absolute worst,” I declare, pinching the bridge of my nose in frustration. I can feel our chances of winning suffocating slowly in this dark, cramped room as we speak.

“I can think of far worse things,” Cyrus says blithely, checking behind the table for the fifth time. “The year 536, for instance.”

“What happened in the year 536?” Though I’m not sure if that’s even the right question here. The year 536 sounds very well like it could also be a band, or a fancy club for rich people to chat about their yachts, or one of those supposedly profound four-hour-long movies where everyone dies.

“A devastating series of natural disasters,” he says. “There was a volcanic winter and major crop failures as a result. I think about that year often.”

“You think about major crop failures from centuries ago … often?”

He nods. “At least three times a day.”

I have no idea if he’s just messing with me at this point.

“Because I often feel like life is terrible,” Cyrus explains, moving on to check the porcelain vase propped up in the middle of the table. “And then I remind myself that, well, you know, looking back on the long course of human history and everything we’ve survived and haven’t survived, I’m actually very lucky. Helps put things into perspective— Hey, I found it,” he says, triumph blazing through his voice.

I jerk my head up to see him dangling the bronze key between his fingers. Forget the northern lights. Forget Niagara Falls at sunset, snow on the beach, and every Michelangelo painting—this is officially the most beautiful sight to ever exist. If I could, I’d take a photo of this exact scene and hang it up in my bedroom. “It fell into that vase?” I demand.

“It appears so.”

“Well, it definitely didn’t fall from my pocket,” I can’t help emphasizing.