3 - Isabel

The front door slammed behind me and caught part of the

cloth shopping bag I had in my hands to take to Mom’s house. I tried to pull it free, but it was lodged pretty good. With a sigh, I grabbed my keys out of my purse to open my place back up, but then I fumbled the keys and almost spilled my travel mug of coffee.

“Careful there, El,” came the voice I tried to avoid when I was running low on time or patience.

Frank. My duplex neighbor.

I gave him a weak smile, which froze in place when I saw him standing in his bathrobe and boxers, scratching his considerable beer belly. He had one of his female mannequins sitting in the single chair he could squeeze in on his tiny front porch. Usually, he kept those ladies inside the house, which was creepy enough. No need to bring them outside and remind us he had a few screws loose.

“Off to your mom’s?” he called across our adjoining decks, then took a huge slurp of coffee before offering the cup to his inanimate friend.

My routine was highly pre