I placed the realtor's card beside Vivian's address book. Her notes were not proof that the street had once been perfect. Between recipes and phone numbers, she had recorded disagreements: hedge cut too low, borrowed drill returned rusty, Celia late with ladder. On the final page, Vivian had written that good neighbors were people who repaired what they damaged. I had mistaken her shorthand for effortless harmony.

Celia made the first repayment on time. She also hired the contractor to inspect every exterior outlet on her house. When the rebate was approved, we attended separate permit appointments and compared only the trench plan. The work tore a muddy stripe between our driveways. For two weeks, neither property looked sellable. Oddly, that made me feel less trapped by appearances.

Marcus completed his probationary month and used his first paycheck to replace the car's worn tires. He thanked me for the ride, then apologized without attaching his circumstances as a discount. I told him I appreciated both. He asked whether he could retrieve Vivian's old bicycle from my shed and repair it for commuting. We wrote down that it remained mine and that he could use it through winter.

The new chargers came online in October. Each displayed its own meter behind a locked panel. Celia stood beside hers but did not plug in the car. She said Marcus had decided to sell it after all. A buyer was coming that evening, and she feared he would change his mind when he saw the empty driveway. At dusk, a young couple arrived. Marcus handed them the keys, then walked toward my porch carrying the old black extension cord coiled over one shoulder. For a moment, I thought he meant to return it as evidence. He smiled before I could ask another question.