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“For me?”

“Yes, you. Don’t be stupid.” Lana grabbed him by the elbow and led him into the house while Sara ran to their car to retrieve the mystery item. “We should be celebrating, not dwelling on a little neighbourly spat. It’s really great to see you getting back to your old self.”

And that’s exactly what he was doing, gluing pieces back together one day at a time and hoping the glue would hold.

They headed into the living room, avoiding the boxes that were absolutely everywhere, leading from the hallway, through the open kitchen, and up to the sofa they eventually settled on. The house itself was long and narrow in that modern way of single lots being subdivided to accommodate two homes. The finishings were trendy enough, if done on the cheap, vinyl-covered MDF, a few dints in the walls from the previous tenant that Bradley would have no problem fixing up.

Sara bounded into the house and manoeuvred the same obstacle course of cardboard. “For you.” She handed him a brown leather case. “Happy housewarming.”

Bradley took the case from her and popped the two gold latches. Inside were carving knives, chisels, files, all with artistic walnut handles as stunning as the wood carvings he immediately started imagining he could make with this kit.

“We thought now that you’ve checked the big stuff off your list—the job, the house—you could get back to your old hobby.”

“Thank you,” he said almost in a whisper.

His mind was taking him back to his early teens, to when his father had first taught him how to use a table saw and a nail gun after conscripting him to help build their back deck, Bradley watching wistfully as his sisters were permitted to simply suntan and drink lemonade in the backyard. But to Bradley’s surprise, what started out as forced labour became a pastime he thoroughly enjoyed. The concentration of working with his hands. The joy of creating something that hadn’t been there before. He and his father had been close that year. They’d started making furniture together, cutting and sanding and staining a chair for his mother, a new cabinet for Lana. But while his father fixated on functionality and the big cuts, Bradley became more interested in the aesthetics, the fine details. He could spend hours carving intricate patterns into the arms of a rocking chair. And slowly, as always, the joint activity fizzled out.

“I appreciate this, I do.” He raised an eyebrow. “As long as there are no ulterior motives to this gift.”

“Absolutely not.”

“No way.”

“We just remember how happy you were back then.”

“Hey, I’m happy now,” he countered.

“We know,” they said in unison.

“Maybe that’s not the right word.” Sara shrugged. “But you seemed…lighter, back then. We may not have known exactly what was going on with you these past few years, but we could tell you weren’t yourself.”

Lana scooted herself closer to him on the sofa. “And we want you to find that same happiness, lightness, whatever you want to call it, here and now, in your new home.”

Home.

Bradley couldn’t help but glance out the window toward his neighbour’s house.

“Hey, seriously. Stop worrying about her.” Sara gave him a small smack on the shoulder. “You worry way too much about other people. Focus on yourself, okay? I’m sure this whole thing will die down soon enough.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re probably right.”

But later that evening, when Bradley looked out his window again only to see the woman’s curtains flutter closed, he feared this—whatever this was—had only just begun.

DEVRA

Devra considered she may have overreacted to the man’s excessive number of lawn ornaments for the exact length of time it took her to sit at her desk and get back up again. Which wasn’t long. She’d been distracted by the noise all day, unable to focus. And now she was being kept awake by the bright lights and whirring fans of his inflatable village. It was two in the morning, for heaven’s sake. Yet he’d left the display on. As the sleepless hours ticked away, Devra grew more certain this was intentional. Thinking back, she was sure there’d been understanding in his eyes, could have sworn he’d studied her face and realized her anguish. But he’d continued with his decorations anyway. And now, clearly, he meant to drive her mad.

In the morning, between sips of her third coffee, she kept glancing at the curtains. The ones that covered the front window and hid the ghastly display still buzzing on the edge of her lawn, as well as the ones that covered the large picture window at the side of her house and hid her view of the man himself. The original builder designed the layout to bring more natural light into the house. Ultimately, it only gave her an uncomfortable view into her neighbour’s living room, the two houses mirroring each other and closely abutted. It was a view she hadn’t thought much about when she lived next to the previous tenant—quiet, sweet, Jewish Marjorie.

Now, she couldn’t stop wondering, couldn’t stop fixating.

What might he be doing now?

As she skulked over to the window, a cat on the prowl, she imagined the man swivelling around in a sinister black chair, cackling villainously as he devised the next step in his evil plan. She slid the curtains aside.

The man was…unpacking boxes.

Duh.