One Tuesday, Barbara drove away, I presumed for work, before the truck arrived.
She wore a blue blouse and a scarf wrapped high around her neck despite the warm weather.
Two bags remained at the curb.
Anna was reading at the kitchen table.
“Don’t,” she said without looking up.
“I did not say anything.”
“You are thinking loudly.”
“I am going to check the mail.”
“The mail arrives at three.”
I crossed the street anyway.
The larger bag had been tied in a careful double knot.
I knew I had no right to touch it.
I opened it anyway. Instead of trash, I found several clothes belonging to a girl.
Every hair on my arms stood up as I immediately thought that maybe my neighbor was keeping someone in her house.
