Another day, she pointed at my hair and said, “You look like you lost a fight with a lawnmower.”
“Nice to see you too.”
“Hm,” she muttered. “At least you sound awake today.”
She was difficult in a strangely entertaining way once you got used to her.
Then one afternoon, everything changed.
I was carrying groceries home after work when she called to me from behind her front gate.
“You live nearby, boy?”
“Few houses over.”
She studied me for a second before saying, “You want to earn some decent money?”
I stopped immediately.
“Doing what?”
She opened the front door and motioned for me to follow her.
Inside, she poured tea strong enough to melt metal and got straight to the point.
“I’m dying,” she announced casually.
I nearly choked.
“Oh, stop reacting like that,” she snapped. “I’m old, not immortal.”
Then she explained.
Her health was failing.
She needed help.
Groceries.
Medication.
Rides.
Repairs.
Company.
