That morning I padded barefoot across the kitchen floor, wearing an old t shirt with faded lettering, and poured myself a mug of coffee strong enough to keep me alert through a football game later in the afternoon. I opened the living room window, letting in crisp autumn air mixed with the sound of a distant lawnmower that clearly belonged to someone far more industrious than I intended to be that day.
My garden sat outside like a guilty secret. Overgrown grass leaned in all directions. Dry leaves gathered in corners like forgotten memories. A stubborn patch of weeds had begun to claim territory as if they were paying rent. I knew it needed attention. I also knew I was not going to give it any attention today. This Saturday was reserved for rest, for quiet, for existing without purpose.
Then the doorbell rang.
It was a short, dry chime that echoed through the house with an unpleasant sense of inevitability. I stared at the door, then at my armchair, then at the mug in my hand. I considered pretending I was not home. My conscience disagreed.
With a resigned sigh, I walked to the door and opened it.
Two boys stood on the porch.