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“Always. Three blocks. The crack in the sidewalk by the bodega? I count it as my front step.”

They didn’t exchange numbers. Didn’t promise coffee or a re-read of the ghost-dog book. Instead, Leo took his warm, finished laundry and sat on the floor next to her machine. She pulled out her red scarf—still damp—and tied it loosely around her wrist. Then she handed him the paperback. “Always

Leo’s instinct was to pull out his phone. To scroll. To disappear. But the laundromat’s Wi-Fi was down (a mercy, he’d later think). So he said the only thing that came to mind. Leo took his warm

“Start at page one,” she said. “The dog’s fine for a while.” “Always