My ten-year-old stood in the entryway, his cheeks flushed and his eyes gleaming with excitement. He was clutching a small, square wooden box with both hands, as though it were made of gold.
“Look what Mr. Harlan gave me!” he announced, holding it high like a trophy.
My heart dropped.
Now, let me explain something about our neighbor, Mr. Harlan. He was an older man, probably late seventies, who had lived in the house next door since before I moved here six years ago. Tall, wiry, with sharp cheekbones and permanent frown lines, he looked like someone who’d forgotten how to smile. People rarely saw him except when he shuffled to his mailbox or glared from his porch at kids riding bikes too close to his lawn.
