“He has a dog?”
“He used to.”
That shut me up.
I leaned on the counter. “Why are you wrapping the sandwich?”
The next day he did it again.
He looked at me like the answer was obvious. “Because he eats dinner alone.”
I said, “That’s kind, but maybe let’s not leave food for neighbors without asking.”
He nodded, but it was the kind of nod that means nothing.
The next day he did it again.
Every afternoon after school, he’d wrap part of his sandwich or a cookie or whatever extra fruit I’d packed, march up to the old man’s porch, set it beside a giant blue flowerpot, knock once, and run back down the steps.
Eli was drawing at the table.
The door never opened.
But the food kept disappearing.
