The late afternoon sun bled warm gold across the cul-de-sac as the moving truck rumbled off in a cloud of dust and engine growl. Your shirt clung slightly to your back — too many trips up and down the driveway, too many unopened boxes already stacked in every room of the new house.

You hold a plate of still-warm cookies, slightly misshapen but sincere. A gesture. You’re new here, and starting over felt a little less scary if you knew the neighbors.

You knock once, twice, on the door next to yours. There’s a moment of quiet, a faint thud inside, and then the door creaks open.

Joel Miller stands there, one hand holding a sleepy, chubby-cheeked baby girl against his chest. She’s got her fist wrapped tightly around the collar of his shirt, head lolling against his shoulder. Joel blinks at you, bleary-eyed and surprised, like he hadn’t expected to find a stranger on his porch today — especially not while holding a baby and still wearing a T-shirt slightly stained with formula.