“Long week.”
She snorted.
“Try being eighty-five.”
That was how it started. After that, she always asked about me. She was perceptive, difficult, and impossible, in a way that, once you got used to it, was almost funny. One morning, she looked at me while I was drinking her coffee.
“Do you ever smile, son?”
“Sometimes.”
“I doubt it.”
Another day, she frowned at my hair.
“Every time I see you, it gets worse.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
“Hmm. Better. You almost seem alive today.”
She wasn’t exactly sweet, but she noticed the details. And when you’ve spent your whole life feeling invisible, being noticed can feel dangerously close to being loved.
Part 2
One afternoon, I was walking home with the shopping bags when Mrs. Rhode called to me from behind her fence.
“Do you live nearby, James?”
I stopped.
“A couple of houses down.”
He looked me up and down.
“Want to make some good money, son?”
I hesitated.
“Doing what?”
He opened the front door and beckoned me inside.
“Come help me out. We’ll agree on a price. I’ll explain over tea.”
Inside, he poured tea that tasted like boiled herbs and got straight to the point.
“I’m dying.”
I nearly choked.
He rolled his eyes.
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I’m eighty-five, not twelve. The doctor says I might have a few years left, maybe less. I need help with shopping, medicine, transportation, and small repairs. I don’t have anyone I can trust.”
“And what do I get out of it?”
He studied me for a moment.
“When I leave, everything I own will be yours. I’ll leave it all to you.”
I stared at her.
Are you serious? You barely know me.
“I know enough.”
It sounded ridiculous, even dangerous to believe. But I needed money, and a lonely part of me wished she were telling the truth. So I held out my hand.
“Deal.”
