Every morning at exactly seven, my neighbor Barbara carried another large black trash bag to the curb.
At first, I thought nothing of it.
Then the bags kept coming.
One.
Then two.
Then sometimes three.
My wife, Anna, noticed them too.
“Have you ever wondered what’s inside?” she asked one morning.
“Trash,” I replied.
She gave me a look.
“Every single morning?”
Barbara’s house was directly across from ours. Everything about it looked immaculate—trimmed hedges, spotless windows, a polished silver SUV. Barbara herself always appeared perfectly composed, usually wearing a scarf and neat clothes even when she was only collecting the mail.
But lately, she seemed different.
She had lost weight.
She looked tired.
