A white Dodge rolled through the neighborhood on a Saturday afternoon. Dads were raking leaves in front yards. Sweeping them into little piles picked up by their children and placed in plastic bags. Moms put out mums on front porches and walkways leading up to glass doors. Wreaths were angled just right. Autumn wreaths with fake leaves of gold, red, and rust just hanging there.

The driver of the Dodge took it all in. It smelled of suburbia. Grass still thick in October. Lawnmowers could be heard in the distance. Kids earning their keep. He watched as the postman delivered catalogs and bills to each house. Magazines subscribed to.

His radio was turned down low. Songs by Bill Evans, John Coltrane, Dexter Gordon, the voice of Chet Baker, listened to on the public radio station as slowly the car turned onto another street, revealing more large houses, mcmansions, all looking the same. Two car garages and shrubs. Lots of shrubs. Dogs barking.

I used to live here, he thought. It’s what she wanted, he laughed. Safety. She wanted safety. Honey, there ain’t nothing safe in this world, he remembered telling her. Nothing.

A kickball suddenly rolled out in front of the car. The fat man slammed on the brakes. A child looked up at him. The driver gave the kid permission to retrieve the red ball. He thought of years ago when his children played as well. He smiled at the boy, who turned his back and ran back to his yard. Not even a wave or a thank you.

They raise animals out here, he whispered. Animals that can’t talk or acknowledge anyone. Love Supreme came on the radio. Windows up. He listened to the saxophone. And drove out of the addition. Time passes, he said. Time passes. Ain’t no-one safe.