the worn-out white house with the peeling paint and the forgotten porch, knocked on the door, and waited.
The man inside was not grateful. He was not warm. He was not the kind of neighbor anyone sought out by choice.
But Kylie kept showing up anyway, for seven years, for reasons she could not have fully explained at the time and that she would only understand completely on the afternoon an attorney pressed play on a recording in a quiet office, and a voice from the past filled the room.