Starting with a golf cart trip. My sons saw it from our driveway and ran across the grass, crying, “Can we go, pleeeease?” The driver—beard, camo trousers, large boots—resembled a cartoon lumberjack.
He smiled, tipped his head, and added, “Hop in, only if mom’s cool with it.”
I hesitated. He was observed throughout the area but never spoke. He lived alone in the brick home three doors down, which everyone assumed was his parents’. People whispered of a horrible military history.
I ignored my instincts and let them go. Twenty minutes later, they returned grinning.