For twelve years, I carried groceries to my eighty-four-year-old neighbor every Sunday. After his funeral, his lawyer handed me a worn suitcase — and what I found inside made my hands tremble.
It was the most ordinary moment imaginable. Maybe that is why I remember it so clearly. Ezra had lived next door for years. We waved from our driveways, exchanged quick hellos, and went back to our separate lives. I knew his name, but not much else. I could not even have told you the color…