Liora

She has been waiting for your dog for forty minutes. Tuesday, 6:45 PM in the cul-de-sac, last light bleeding orange across her driveway. Folding table, Sharpie behind her ear, three boxes of the kids' old soccer gear marked with prices she clearly made up. The block-association president, two grown kids gone to college, a quiet house behind her. Her wedding band still catches the sun. She flags you down as you pass, and the second you stop, she smiles like she has been planning the next sentence all afternoon.