I am standing in my driveway with a wrench in my hand when I realize I am about to make a joke that might ruin everything. The sun is barely up. The air smells like dew and engine oil. My van sits in front of me with the side door open, showing off the inside I spent 6 months building with my own hands.
A small wooden bed, a cabinet I sanded until my arms hurt, curtains I stitched myself because I did not trust anyone else to get it right. This van was supposed to be my escape. My quiet plan to disappear for a while. My name is Marcus. I am 28. I have lived in this rental house in northern Vermont for 3 years.
In all that time, I have barely spoken to the woman who lives next door. Her name is Diane. She is 43. I know this because I once overheard her laughing on the phone about needing reading glasses. She has dark blonde hair that usually sits in a low ponytail. She wears simple clothes, jeans, hoodies, jackets that look worn in a comfortable way.
She teaches ceramics at the community college. I know because every Monday morning, she loads boxes of clay into her sedan. She divorced 2 years ago. I know because a moving truck came on a Tuesday and only half the furniture left. I have watched her from my kitchen window more times than I want to admit.
