early.”
I didn’t return the smile.
“Have you been stealing gasoline from my truck?”
His expression changed.
“I have camera footage, Clark. You walked onto my driveway at two in the morning with a hose.”
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he laughed.
Actually laughed.
“Oh, come on, Frank.”
My jaw tightened.
“So you admit it?”
“I take a little.”
“A little?”
“Gas prices are ridiculous.”
He leaned against the doorway.
“And honestly, you’re retired. You hardly drive anywhere. I have work. Kids. School runs. You’re letting that fuel sit there while I actually need it.”
I stared at him.
“It belongs to me.”
Clark rolled his eyes.
“You’re being greedy.”
That sentence almost impressed me.
He was stealing fuel from a seventy-year-old widower and somehow I was selfish.
“It’s a couple gallons,” he continued. “We’re neighbors. Neighbors share.”
“Sharing requires asking.”
“Would you have said yes?”
“No.”
Clark
