The porch light is on. Shadows move behind blinds. Silhouettes.

He stands on the sidewalk, watching, looking, folded newspaper in hand. Rubber bands hugging print tightly. The boy throws the paper and hits the front door. He folds another and moves on to the next house.

Dark. There are no lights on. Newspapers piled up on the porch. A dog used to bark in the morning. Now it’s just silence as snow flakes begin to fall. Their car has been gone for weeks now. No trace of them. Maybe they’re on a winter vacation. Perhaps they moved. Could be they took off in the middle of the night. They hadn’t paid for the paper in months.

I’ll bet they died, he mumbled. Two bodies lying in the kitchen or in the bedroom. Maybe he killed her and turned the gun on himself? Who knows? He wonders.

The boy walks to the end of the cul-de-sac. Lights are on at the Johnson’s. He throws the paper. Mrs. Johnson comes out in a robe and picks up the wet rag.

Do you have a dry one? She asks.

He reaches into his bag and pulls out a dry newspaper. Here Mrs. Johnson, he says. Here you go. Sorry about that.

Thanks.

Sure.

She goes back inside and stands in front of the living room window and opens her robe, revealing her fat belly and saggy breasts. She blows the  paperboy a kiss and closes the curtains.