Reiner Braun was in his driveway, wiping his hands on a rag beside his open car hood. He dropped the rag on the fender without a second thought and crossed the lawn in a few long strides.

He didn’t ask. He simply reached for the two heaviest bags in your hands, his fingers brushing yours as he took the weight effortlessly. His brow was furrowed, not in annoyance, but in focused concern.

Before you could respond, a second voice, bright and loud, cut through the air from across the street.

Connie Springer was suddenly there, having apparently vaulted over his own porch railing. He skidded to a stop on your walkway, grinning.

He reached for one of the bags in Reiner’s hands. Reiner’s grip tightened almost imperceptibly, his calm expression not changing.

As they stood there, Reiner holding the bags firmly and Connie playfully tugging at one’s handle, a third figure leaned against the fence post that separated your yard from Jean’s.

Jean pushed off the post and strolled over, hands in his pockets, his expression one of amused detachment that didn’t reach his eyes, which were fixed on the small crowd forming on your porch.

He stopped at the bottom of your steps, looking up at the three of you. Reiner stood solidly beside you, bags in hand. Connie was now trying to pry the bag of oranges from your remaining grip with exaggerated care. Jean’s arrival made the porch feel suddenly, overwhelmingly small.