I moved in across from her two years ago. I’m a journalist, work from home, and I started noticing things. The home care agency sent different nurses every few weeks.
Dorothy would try to talk to them, try to make friends, but they’d just do their job and leave. Feed her. Bathe her. Give her medications. Then disappear.
She started leaving her door open during the day. Just a crack. Enough that she could hear someone in the hallway. Enough that she wasn’t completely alone. I’d wave when I passed.
Sometimes I’d stop and chat. She told me about her late husband George, a Korean War vet. About her kids who were “too busy.” About how she used to travel the world and now couldn’t make it to the mailbox alone.
The biker showed up on a Tuesday in January. I heard Dorothy’s door open and looked out my peephole. There he was. Maybe 6’4″, covered in tattoos, beard down to his chest, wearing a leather vest with patches. He was carrying grocery bags.
My first thought was that Dorothy was being robbed. I opened my door. “Excuse me, can I help you?” He turned and smiled. The kind of smile that completely changed his face. “I’m just helping Miss Dorothy with her groceries. She called me.”
