Dori brought her clasped hands to rest in front of her skirt. “No. I’ve been here longer than you,” she said in a gentle rejoinder. “You just didn’t see me. It isn’t your fault. I’m reclusive. See?”

She pointed at a trailer down the sun-weathered street. It was clean and well-kept, but without anything to recommend it except a wind chime made of softly clacking wood. Dori turned watery eyes on the freckled face of her neighbor. “I remember when you moved in. You brought everything in your van. You have a friend who rides a motorcycle. It’s loud,” she added, an afterthought.