I stopped.
“A couple houses down.”
She looked me over carefully.
“You want to make some decent money, son?”
I hesitated.
“Doing what?”
She opened her front door and waved me in.
“Come help me. We’ll agree on a price. I’ll explain over tea.”
Inside, she poured tea that tasted like boiled weeds and got straight to the point.
“I’m dying.”
I nearly choked.
She rolled her eyes.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic. I’m eighty-five, not twelve. The doctor says maybe a few years, maybe less. I need help with groceries, medicine, rides, and small repairs. I don’t have anyone reliable.”
“And what do I get?”
She watched me for a moment.
“When I’m gone, what I have becomes yours. I’ll leave everything to you.”
I stared at her.
“Are you serious? You barely know me.”
“I know enough.”
It sounded ridiculous, maybe even dangerous to believe. But I needed money, and some lonely part of me wanted her to be telling the truth. So I held out my hand.
“Deal.”
At first, it was exactly what she said it would be. I drove her to appointments, picked up groceries, sorted her pills into little plastic boxes, fixed a cabinet hinge, changed lightbulbs, cleaned gutters, and took out the trash. She complained through all of it.
“You’re late.”
“It’s been four minutes.”
“Still late.”
I would tell her she was impossible, and she would answer.
“Yet you keep coming back.”
Slowly, without either of us naming it, things changed. She started asking me to stay for dinner. Her cooking was terrible, but she acted personally insulted if I said so. Once she made meatloaf so dry I had to drink three glasses of water to swallow it.
“This is awful.”
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