The cardboard box of kitchen towels was damp at the bottom where the rain had pooled on the driveway overnight. Sophie held the other end of the carton, her small fingers tucked under the wet flap.
“Keep it level, Soph,” I said.
I rubbed my right wrist, feeling the ridge where the bone had knitted together poorly in Germany twelve years ago. The old SUV was parked at an angle, the rear hatch gaping open to receive the last six boxes of our move to Oakridge.
A black Ford pickup truck rounded the corner of Elm Street, its engine humming with a heavy, aftermarket rumble. The tires did not slow down as they hit the wide puddle near our mailbox.
A sheet of brown water rose three feet off the asphalt and sprayed across the gravel.
Sophie jumped back, but the muddy spray soaked the canvas of her left shoe and left dark spots across her white socks. She stood very still, her fingers twisting the lower hem of her blue t-shirt into a tight knot.
Travis Caldwell leaned his head out of the driver’s window, his silver-rimmed sunglasses pushed up into his short hair. He bounced slightly in his seat, his broad shoulders shifting against the leather.
“Missed a spot on the lawn, Claire,” he yelled.
He did not wait for an answer, hitting the gas so the truck fishtailed slightly before pulling into the concrete driveway three doors down.
Sophie looked down at her wet shoe, then up at me. “Is he going to do that every day?”
“No,” I said, lifting the wet box from her hands and sliding it onto the rubber mat in the trunk. “He is just checking the perimeter.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“It means he wants to see who looks back at him,” I said.
I closed the heavy rear hatch of the vehicle, the latch clicking shut with a dry, metallic sound that echoed off the brick front of our new house.
The neighborhood was quiet again, except for the distant whir of a commercial lawn mower two streets over.
