Molly’s a natural blond with a wasp’s waist. I’m guessing she’s in her forties because she has two grown daughters, both of whom live out of state. I don’t know how long Molly’s been divorced, but unlike some women I meet, she appears perfectly comfortable living alone.

The company she works for assists special needs children and was named after the owner’s dog. I know Molly works odd hours because I so often see her walking her dog or watering her lawn.

Friday, I’d just finishing installing two new windows in the downstairs bedroom.

“Who’s Abby’s friend?” I ask.

“That’s Ginger.”

“She’s pretty. She’s the color of those pine needles under your trees, but she’s not moving too well.

“She’s fourteen.”

“Ginger, you’re getting old.” I bend down to pet her. “My dog lived until she was Ginger’s age. We should have put her down, but we didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Just couldn’t. Then one winter night as she walked along the road, a truck ran her over. I came home and found her covered by the guy’s tartan blanket. I felt sorry for the driver, he had no idea he’d done us all a favor.”

“Abby had a cousin, Violet. At seven, he was diagnosed with leukemia. He was in so much pain he didn’t even want to come inside where he used to curl up. That fetal position hurt too much so he’d lay on the porch near the slider. It was so sad.”

“No trucks in your neighborhood?”

“Come on! We took him to the vet like you should have.”

“And he laid down and waited for the injection.”

“No, he fought like hell. He always hated the vet.”