Holding a black wire coat hanger in his hand, bending a loop in the tip with a pair of pliers, my neighbor Mr. Alvarado is walking down his drive without a shirt, pale winter fat hanging over his belt, blue rings around his eyes. He has come out like this on a February morning to try to break into the car his son has locked the keys inside as the boy hovers in the background, arms crossed over his chest, carefully watching while pretending to be bored. They are trying hard not to make a scene in the thin light of Sunday morning while the next-door neighbors snore — and they could call up the garage, but Mr. Alvarado doesn’t want to bring the experts in; he wants to teach his son a thing or two a man should know. He is like the Eskimo dad teaching his boy to fish: threading the line of reindeer gut through a needle eye in the antler bone, standing silent over their personal hole in the ice. Love is the thing you press your face against, trying to figure out how to get inside without breaking it. Look, they are the proof: working the tip of the wire under the rubber seal of the window frame; carefully sliding the loop over and down to snag the silver latch and open it.