When I knocked, the door was opened by a man who looked far older than forty. Carl Reed was incredibly thin, his gray sweater hanging loosely from his narrow shoulders, making him look almost swallowed by his clothes.
“You must be Megan,” he said, his voice carrying a formal but gentle clarity that did not match the modest neighborhood.
“I am,” I said, holding up my blue volunteer badge. “It is nice to meet you, Mr. Reed.”
“Please, call me Carl,” he said, stepping back to let me into the hallway.
The air inside was cool and smelled faintly of old paper and cedar. The floorboards did not creak under our feet as he led me into the living room.
“I apologize in advance for the mess,” Carl said, gesturing toward the spotless space.
I looked around the room, finding nothing but perfect order. The worn green carpet was freshly vacuumed, the cushions on the sofa were straight, and not a single speck of dust sat on the side tables.
“It looks very neat to me,” I said, setting my bag on the edge of the sofa.
“It is harder to keep up with things lately,” he said, sitting down slowly in a large brown armchair.
His hands were very pale, and he rested them flat on his knees as if trying to keep them steady. His eyes were dark and unusually bright against his gray skin.
“I can heat some soup for you,” I said, noticing a small can of vegetable soup sitting on the kitchen counter through the open doorway.
“That would be very kind,” Carl said. “The kitchen is through there.”
The kitchen was just as tidy as the front room, with every plate stacked neatly in the cupboards. A single green tea cup sat by the sink, dried and clean.
