Through the small window by the front door, I saw Warren, our neighbor, working on his lawnmower in his driveway.
He wiped his hands on a grease-stained rag, looking over toward our house.
I stepped back into the shadows of the hallway, holding my breath until he turned back to his machine.
The evening was cold, the autumn wind rattling the loose pane in the kitchen window.
Nolan had been quiet all through dinner, eating his pork chop with his head down, his eyes fixed on his plate.
At nine o’clock, his phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, the vibration making a dull, drilling sound against the wood.
He did not answer it immediately. He waited until the third ring, then picked it up and walked toward the back door.
I stood by the sink, holding a damp dish towel, watching him through the glass of the porch door.
He closed the door firmly behind him, cutting off the draft from the yard.
Outside, the porch light was a yellow bulb that cast long, harsh shadows across his face. He looked pale, almost gray, as he held the phone to his ear.
He spoke in quick, sharp whispers, his shoulders hunched against the wind.
His left hand was in his pocket, but I could see his thumb moving, likely twisting his ring through the fabric.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the kitchen door.
I could not hear his words, only the low rumble of his voice through the wood.
He looked back once, his eyes meeting mine through the glass, but he did not stop talking.
He turned his back to me, stepping closer to the railing where the dark yard began.
I touched the white gold bracelet on my wrist, the metal cold against my skin.
The light on the porch caught the edge of his phone as he finally lowered it from his ear.
