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PAIGE: Added a new stop to my trip!
Chase: Nice. Where?
Paige: Small town near Wilmington. They do a big Christmas festival and craft fair every year. Timing works perfect!
Chase: G wants to know if you’re hitting the Christmas shop in Carlyle on your trip.
Paige: Yes, I am! I’m hitting almost every Christmas stop in NC! Did your grandma just ask who you’re texting and what you’re talking about?
Chase: Yep. We’re watching local news. She said texting during the weather is rude but if it’s Paige, it’s ok.
Paige: LOL. Glad I’m the exception.
Chase: Me too.
Paige: ???
Paige: Sorry—Brian calling. Talk later.
ON A TUESDAY MORNING, I’m tying on my bathrobe when my phone buzzes with a new text message.
There’s only one person it’s likely to be at 6:43 in the morning.
It’s Chase Park. You out of the shower yet?
Yes. On every workday, my alarm goes off at 6:27. After turning it off, I give myself three minutes to wake up before I force my feet to hit the floor. My morning showers take between eight and eighteen minutes, depending on if I need to wash my hair or do extra shaving.
Today is a non-hair-washing and non-shaving day, so the shower I just finished was less than ten minutes.
I wait for Chase’s response to come through as I stand in the middle of my bedroom. I’m at your door.
After processing the words, I shake my head at my phone and laugh. I’ve known Chase since elementary school, and he’s always unpredictable. Checking the tie to my robe, I walk down the hall of my three-bedroom Craftsman house and open the front door.
Chase is on my porch, holding out a big coconut donut in a clear pastry bag. He’s smiling only with his eyes.
I open the screen door and reach for the donut. “Thank you!” It’s from the bakery downtown and my favorite. “Why are you out and about so early?”
He lifts his right arm, on which are hooked two grocery bags. “Grandma ran out of orange juice. While I’m here, can I get some cooking oil?”
“Sure.” I step out of the way so he can come in. “Why didn’t you buy oil at the store?”
He follows me into the kitchen and puts down his shopping bags on my counter while I pull open the cabinet where I keep my oil. “Didn’t know I needed it.”
“What kind? Olive? Vegetable? I’ve got some fancy stuff.”
“Something cheap. Don’t waste anything good.” He’s wearing faded jeans and a threadbare gray sweatshirt from our high school basketball team. He’s clearly not taken a shower yet. His hair is always too long, and currently it’s a rumpled mess, pieces of it sticking out in all directions.
I hand him the bottle. “Why do you need it?”
“Minor crisis outside.”
Confused, I follow him as he carries the oil out of the house and down my front walk. I’m only wearing my bathrobe and slippers, but the robe is heavy and fleece and covers me as much as regular clothes. At the end near the sidewalk is a small bird with its feet and the tip of one wing stuck to a glue board—the kind used by pest control to catch bugs or mice.
The bird is a female cardinal. She was staying still until we approached, but now she’s flapping and struggling against the sticky board, desperate to escape.
“Oh no! Poor little thing. Where did that thing come from?”
