My neighbor smiled at that, slow and a little crooked.
I walked back across the strip of grass between our houses with my hands in my pockets, thinking I’d done a small, decent thing on a slow Sunday, nothing more. I had no idea that one cup of coffee had just started a clock that would run for the next 12 years.
***
Twelve years. That’s how long one helpful Sunday turned into a quiet ritual neither of us ever named.
Ezra’s health slipped in small ways at first. A slower walk to the mailbox. A hand that trembled when he poured coffee. Then driving became too much for him, and I started picking up his groceries every Sunday without either of us making it official.
I had no idea.
***
In the first few weeks, Ezra tried to press cash into my palm at the door.
« Anthony, take it. I’m not a charity case. »
« Ezra, I’m already going to the store. It’s the same trip. »
