Curtains closed before sunset.

A vehicle leaving early and coming back late.

The porch light glowing at hours when the rest of the street was dark.

I heard no children playing.

No little voices carried across the fence.

No bright plastic toys appeared on the lawn.

I assumed the man and woman were a childless couple who liked their privacy.

The following Tuesday, sanitation came before breakfast.

I heard the truck stop, the lift engage, and the bin settle onto the pavement.

I watched from the kitchen while waiting for my kettle, then went back to an ordinary morning.

By midmorning, the bin should have been empty.

I walked out to roll it back from the curb, one hand holding a dish towel I had forgotten to put down.

The air was cool but not cold.

Somewhere down the block, a lawn sprinkler clicked through its cycle.