He looked about 27, with a polite manner and a soft-spoken voice. Whenever he arrived, he was carrying either groceries or a bag from the pharmacy.
The first time we spoke, I was collecting my mail while he unloaded two paper bags from his trunk.
“You must be Ariel,” he said.
I paused. “I am.”
“Marjorie’s mentioned you.”
He gave me an easy smile, the kind that made distrust seem almost rude.
“She said you keep an eye on the street.”
“Someone has to,” I answered lightly. “Are you family?”
His smile stayed in place, but he shifted one bag against his hip.
“I’m helping her out for a while.”
Before I could ask what that meant, Marjorie opened her front door.
“Owen, those bags look heavy,” she called.
“I’ve got them,” he assured her.
She saw me and waved, though the movement seemed smaller than usual.
Within a few weeks, the neighbors were calling him “the perfect grandson,” even though Marjorie had once told me she had never had children.
