“Thanks, Mr. Rick.”
While he drank, his gaze drifted toward the garage.
“You ever been inside there?”
“Not yet.”
He seemed surprised.
“Really?”
“I’m still unpacking.”
He nodded, but something about his expression changed. The following week, I caught him standing beside the garage before he’d even started mowing, his fingertips resting lightly against the old wooden siding.
“Everything okay?”
He jerked his hand away.
“Yeah.”
“What were you looking at?”
“The garage.”
“What about it?”
He hesitated, then simply walked back toward his mower.
That became our routine. Chase arrived every Saturday, mowed the lawn perfectly, and argued whenever I paid him extra. The more time I spent around him, the more convinced I became that I’d seen his face somewhere before.
Then, about a month after I hired him, my boss canceled an afternoon meeting and I arrived home earlier than expected.
The mower was sitting in my backyard with the engine still running. One strip of grass remained unfinished.
