After my wife Dorothy passed, the house got quiet in a way that scared me. So when a friendly young man named Kyle bought the place next door and started coming around, I was grateful for the company.
He was helpful to a fault. Mowed my grass, carried my groceries, fixed my gutter. He’d sit on my porch and listen to my old stories. I started to think of him almost like the son Dorothy and I never had.
Then, about two months in, he started bringing papers. ‘The county’s making me update the property line, Frank. Just needs your signature so the fence is legal. Nothing to worry about.’ He always had a pen ready and was always in a bit of a hurry.
Now, Dorothy handled all our affairs for fifty years, and the one thing she drilled into me before she died was this: ‘Frank, you never sign a single word you haven’t read, no matter who’s asking.’ So I told Kyle I’d look it over and sign it in the morning.
He didn’t like that. He pushed a little. But I smiled and said my eyes were tired, and he left the papers. That night, under my good lamp, with my reading glasses and Dorothy’s magnifying glass, I read every single line. And my old heart went cold.
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