Her nails were cut short and bare, with none of the bright red acrylics she used to tap on my kitchen counter.

She worked her way steadily along the fence, dropping trash into her bag.

I stopped at the tailgate of my truck with the bag of soil in my arms.

A year earlier I might have felt the urge to walk over and make sure she saw me standing there in the morning sun.

Instead I heaved the heavy bag into the truck bed and shut the tailgate with a solid click.

The sound didn’t even make her turn her head.