The Writer Meets An Old Neighbor

When we stopped at papa’s house, Raine looked like he had been run over by a freight train. I have found his weakness! He can’t stand car rides…it might come in handy later.

“This is where your dad lives?” Raine said as soon as he was clear of the taxi. His blue eyes scanned the house carefully. “It’s quite big.”

“Yeah, well, it’s comfy, so don’t complain,” I grunted, and hauled my suitcase up to the pavement.

“Here, let me help you with that.”

His hands clasped over mine, and we yanked it up to the sidewalk; a red door a few houses down opened, and out stepped a face I hadn’t seen in the longest time.

“Mrs. McCarthy!” I shouted, waving my hands over my head and running towards the homely woman.

Behind me, I heard a shout and a few swear words that would have nuns crossing themselves.

I could guess what had happened: the suitcase had demolished Raine’s toe.

Oh, well.

“Mrs. McCarthy!” I called again, and she recognized me.

“Aidan! Wherever you been?! We missed you hereabouts!”

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