The first time I met Noah Cole, he was sitting on the curb across from my house on Cedarbrook Lane with his hands tucked beneath his armpits because his coat was too small to cover them.
It was late November in Bellmere.
The kind of afternoon when darkness arrived before dinner and the wind pushed dead leaves along the pavement in little circles.
I had been bringing groceries in from my car when I noticed him.
Eight years old.
Thin.
Brown hair falling into his eyes.
A backpack beside his shoes.
He was staring at the house behind him but making no attempt to go inside.
I carried the last grocery bag to my porch.
Then looked back.
He was still there.
My husband, Thomas Bennett, appeared behind me.
“You’re letting the cold in.”
“There’s a little boy across the street.”
Thomas barely glanced toward him.
“The Coles’ kid.”
“You know him?”
“I’ve seen him.”
“Why is he sitting outside?”
Thomas shrugged.
“Maybe he likes sitting outside.”
It was thirty-eight degrees.
I looked at Thomas.
He understood that look.
“Eleanor.”
“What?”
“Don’t adopt every sad thing you see.”
