He usually arrived around three o’clock in a spotless dark sedan. He looked to be in his late twenties, and he always carried something into Marjorie’s house—groceries, medicine, flowers, or neatly folded paper bags.
The first time we spoke, I was checking my mailbox while he lifted two bags from his trunk.
“You must be Ariel,” he said.
I stopped and looked at him.
“That depends on who’s asking.”
He gave me a friendly smile.
“I’m Owen. Marjorie has told me about you. She says you keep an eye on everyone around here.”
“Someone has to,” I replied. “Are you a relative?”
For the briefest moment, his smile tightened.
“I’m helping her with a few things.”
Before I could ask what that meant, Marjorie opened her front door.
“Owen, don’t try carrying all of that at once,” she called.
“I’ve got it,” he assured her.
