That sentence bothered me.
He just knew.
So the following evening, when the faint music of the truck floated down our street, I went outside with Ellie.
The truck was parked near the corner.
Children crowded around it.
Bikes had been abandoned in driveways and on lawns.
The evening sunlight came through the trees in that beautiful golden way summer light sometimes does.
Behind the serving window stood the driver.
At first glance, there was nothing unusual about him.
He looked somewhere around sixty.
Gray hair.
Glasses.
Faded baseball cap.
The kind of older man you could walk past in a grocery store without remembering five minutes later.
Ellie ran straight to him.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said.
His face brightened when he saw her.
His hand moved automatically toward the freezer, probably already reaching for her usual strawberry bar.
Then he saw me.
And stopped.
His expression changed.
Not fear.
