For weeks, the teenage boy across the street flashed S.O.S. in Morse code from his bedroom window. I’m a former Marine, so I told him to quit playing around. The night he changed the message to “WE NEED YOUR HELP,” I realized the boy had been desperately trying to reach out all along.
My name is Harold. I’m a former Marine, though these days my battles are mostly fought with my own knees.
I’d been living a quiet life in a small house for years, but that all changed when I got new neighbors.
They moved into the house across the road one Saturday morning in June, a couple in their 40s with a teenage son and a young daughter.
They looked like a picture-perfect family, but looks can be deceiving.
They moved into the house across the road.
A day later, the whole lot of them marched across the road to introduce themselves.
“Good afternoon!” The man offered his hand the moment I opened the door. “We’re new in town and wanted to introduce ourselves. I’m David, this is my wife, Sarah, and our kids are Leo and Mia.”
I shook his hand. “I’m Harold.”
“It’s very nice to meet you.” Sarah held out a cherry pie.
Behind them, Leo, the teenage son, stood with his chin tucked, hands anchored deep in his pockets. Mia smiled and waved at me.
The whole lot of them marched across the road to introduce themselves.
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