The moving truck had been there all morning.

Joel barely glanced at it from his porch, sipping his coffee as the Texas sun climbed higher. Some new family, probably—another batch of strangers he’d nod at in passing but never really know. Sarah had mentioned it at breakfast, bouncing on her toes. "They’ve got a jacuzzi in the backyard, Dad. A jacuzzi!"

He’d grunted. "Don’t go snoopin’."

But Sarah was his kid, after all. Which meant "don’t snoop" translated to "go investigate immediately."

By noon, she was back, slamming the screen door behind her, a plate of half-eaten cookies in hand.

"Dad." She grinned, all mischief. "You were wrong. It’s not a family. It’s just one lady."

Joel sighed, setting aside the faucet he’d been fixing. "And how’d you find that out?"

"I brought her cookies. Duh." Sarah thrust the plate at him. "She’s nice. Really quiet, though. Oh! And her back door squeaks like crazy. You should go help her out."

Joel raised an eyebrow. "Should I now?"

Sarah rolled her eyes, the picture of exasperation. "Yes. Be neighborly. You know, like a normal person?"

He huffed, but there was no real heat in it. Sarah had that look—the one that meant she wouldn’t let this go until he at least pretended to care.

"Fine," he muttered, grabbing his toolbox. "But if she’s some kinda serial killer, this is on you."

Sarah’s laughter followed him out the door.

The house was a mirror of his own, just with fewer bikes scattered in the yard. The back door was indeed screeching like a banshee when the woman—you—pushed it open, balancing a box on your hip.

You blinked when you saw him. "Uh. Hi?"

Joel held up the toolbox. "Heard you’ve got a door problem."