The hum of my cheap window air conditioner was the only sound in the afternoon quiet when I turned into my driveway. I parked my old sedan under the shade of the maples, letting the engine die before I sat for a moment on the warm vinyl seat. My lower back ached from the short drive to the market, a dull reminder of the sixty-two years I carried in my bones.
I gathered the three brown paper grocery bags into my arms, balancing the weight against my chest as I stepped out into the heavy air. On top of the bread lay the receipt for thirty-four dollars, its thermal paper already curling in the heat. It was a modest trip, just enough milk, eggs, and soft bread to keep the kitchen running for another week.
As I walked toward the side porch of my brick ranch house, I stopped.
Rachel’s red sedan was parked crookedly near the garage, its front left tire resting fully on the grass. Arthur had spent twenty years tending that bluegrass, protecting it from the heavy tires of visiting oil trucks and lawnmowers alike.
Rachel knew this. She was normally a meticulous girl, always lining up her front bumper with the edge of the brickwork so the driveway remained clear. She had kept that habit even after Arthur passed away, as if honoring his small rules kept him closer to us.
I stood on the gravel path, the weight of the groceries pulling at my wrists. The car sat completely silent under the glare of the sky, the windows rolled up tight to the black rubber frames.
“Rachel,” I said, my voice carrying softly across the yard.
There was no answer, not even the sound of an engine idling. A small piece of blue tissue paper was stuck under the windshield wiper, fluttering against the glass in the dry breeze.
I took two steps toward the driver’s side, intending to tell her she was blocking the path to the garage. Through the dark tint of the rear passenger window, a pale flash of movement caught my attention.