And something inside me that had been asleep since Ellen died began waking up.
I should have called Katie.
Instead, I pulled on my shoes and walked straight across the lawn.
It was around seven.
Clark answered his door holding toast.
The second he saw me, something flashed across his face.
He knew.
Then he smiled.
“Frank! You’re up early.”
I didn’t return the smile.
“Have you been stealing gasoline from my truck?”
His expression changed.
“I have camera footage, Clark. You walked onto my driveway at two in the morning with a hose.”
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he laughed.
Actually laughed.
“Oh, come on, Frank.”
My jaw tightened.
“So you admit it?”
“I take a little.”
“A little?”
“Gas prices are ridiculous.”
He leaned against the doorway.
“And honestly, you’re retired. You hardly drive anywhere. I have work. Kids. School runs. You’re letting that fuel sit there while I actually need it.”
I stared at him.
“It belongs to me.”
Clark rolled his eyes.
“You’re being greedy.”
That sentence almost impressed me.
He was stealing fuel from a seventy-year-old widower and somehow I was selfish.
“It’s a couple gallons,” he continued. “We’re neighbors. Neighbors share.”
“Sharing requires asking.”
“Would you have said yes?”
“No.”
Clark shrugged.
“There you go.”
Then he looked over his shoulder.
“I’ve got to get my kids to school. We’ll talk later.”
He closed the door.
In my face.
I stood on his porch.
Through the door, I heard one of his children ask,
“Who was that?”
Clark answered,
“Just the neighbor being weird.”
Just the neighbor.
Nobody important.
I walked home.
Made another pot of coffee.
And sat at my kitchen table.
I considered calling the police.
Technically, I had everything needed.
Video.
Timestamp.
Clear face.
Repeated theft.
But then I pictured what came next.
Police knock on Clark’s door.
He gets a warning.
Maybe a fine.
Then for the next ten years, I live beside a man telling the neighborhood some unstable old widower called the police because of “a little gas.”
