Enough to become the uncle who mailed birthday cards instead of bringing them in person.
Enough to text before stopping by.
Enough to let Reena decide when the children were “ready.”
And for years, he told himself that patience was kindness.
That morning, kneeling on his porch with a screwdriver in his hand, he was just beginning to understand that sometimes patience is only fear wearing a better shirt.
Then came the scraping sound.
Slow.
Dragging.
Wrong.
Peter looked toward the sidewalk.
For one second, his eyes saw the shape before his mind accepted it.
