My name is Harold. I’m a former Marine, though these days the only battles I fight are with stiff knees and the weather.
Life had settled into something quiet and predictable. Then the family across the street moved in.
They arrived on a bright June morning — a man in his forties, his wife, a teenage boy, and a little girl. By afternoon they were on my porch with smiles and a cherry pie.
“I’m David,” the father said, shaking my hand. “This is Sarah. Our kids are Leo and Mia.”
Leo barely met my eyes. Hands in his pockets. Chin tucked. The kind of posture I’d seen before — not rebellious, just pressed down.
A week later I noticed something else.
David and Leo were in the yard throwing a football. At first it looked like bonding. Then I heard the tone.
“Again! Keep your elbow up. Focus.”
Leo’s throws were decent, but David dissected each one like a performance review. When a pass veered wide, David checked his watch and sent him to throw at the wall.
“Keep your elbow up,” I called out across the street.
Leo looked startled, then nodded. His next throw was better. I gave him a thumbs-up. For a second, he looked like a kid again.
Less than a week later, things got strange.
I was sitting in my darkened living room when I saw it.
A flashlight blinking from Leo’s bedroom window.
Three short. Three long. Three short.
