“I do not need to know him,” Chad said flatly, before closing his front door completely.

I walked slowly back across his pristine lawn, crossed the low fence line, and found Dad sitting on the back porch shelling fresh peas into a stainless steel bowl.

He had observed my walk over to Chad’s house and my quick return.

“Well?” Dad asked mildly.

“He claims you are running an illegal commercial operation and selling produce without a tax license,” I reported.

Dad let out a genuine, hearty laugh, something I had not heard from him since before Mom’s funeral.