The garage became something else over the next month. A couch became a bed. A bed became a place to sleep through the night without one eye open. Delia brought a hot plate. Marcus brought a small space heater that looked like a retro robot. Someone named Cora from two doors down brought curtains she’d hemmed herself, pale yellow, like morning light.
“I have a garage,” she said. “It’s insulated. There’s a couch. It folds out. It smells like mothballs and regret, but it’s dry.”
After a week, a man from across the street appeared. His name was Marcus. He was a high school history teacher with a limp and a kind face. He brought a camping chair—the good kind, with a cup holder—and set it up next to Eli’s box.
He stepped out of the garage. Not because he was fixed. Not because the problems had vanished. But because the woman in the purple raincoat was already walking toward the blue house with the dead sunflowers, and she hadn’t looked back to see if he was following.
