Arthur glanced up as my boots crunched on the gravel path.

He pushed his silver-framed glasses up by the bridge and laid his pruners on a wooden garden bench.

“Afternoon, David,” he said.

“Hello, Arthur,” I said.

He waved a hand toward a row of yellow marigolds he’d trimmed neatly along the concrete curb.

“The board accepted my volunteer application for grounds upkeep,” Arthur said.

“It keeps my hands busy during the day.”

“The edging looks sharp,” I said.