The old lady next door is at it again.

She and her walker hopscotch down her front stoop as I rip open the last Hot Pocket in the freezer.

I origami it into a paper towel envelope and toss it in the microwave, closing the door as quietly as possible. It’s late, so it’s unlikely Barbara will hear me, but I’ve been blindsided by her wildly fluctuating hearing radius and lucid spells before.

I push the numbers on the microwave, wincing at the beeps. T-minus two minutes and eight seconds until the best part of my day.

I watch the woman through the window over the sink. She’s once again successfully navigated the concrete steps and is now inching across the grass. Lift, slam, shuffle, repeat. Orneriness lingers behind her like a green cloud.

If I didn’...

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