Me hice cargo de la herencia de mi vecina de 85 años, pero no me dejó nada; entonces, a la mañana siguiente, su abogado llamó a la puerta con una fiambrera abollada y una llave que se suponía que no debía reconocer.

Part 2

One afternoon, I was walking home with grocery bags when Mrs. Rhode called to me from behind her fence.

“You live nearby, James?”

I stopped.

“A couple houses down.”

She looked me over carefully.

“You want to make some decent money, son?”

I hesitated.

“Doing what?”

She opened her front door and waved me in.

“Come help me. We’ll agree on a price. I’ll explain over tea.”

Inside, she poured tea that tasted like boiled weeds and got straight to the point.

“I’m dying.”

I nearly choked.

She rolled her eyes.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic. I’m eighty-five, not twelve. The doctor says maybe a few years, maybe less. I need help with groceries, medicine, rides, and small repairs. I don’t have anyone reliable.”

“And what do I get?”

She watched me for a moment.

“When I’m gone, what I have becomes yours. I’ll leave everything to you.”

I stared at her.

“Are you serious? You barely know me.”

“I know enough.”

It sounded ridiculous, maybe even dangerous to believe. But I needed money, and some lonely part of me wanted her to be telling the truth. So I held out my hand.

“Deal.”

At first, it was exactly what she said it would be. I drove her to appointments, picked up groceries, sorted her pills into little plastic boxes, fixed a cabinet hinge, changed lightbulbs, cleaned gutters, and took out the trash. She complained through all of it.

“You’re late.”

“It’s been four minutes.”