Dangerous Compassions

that’s what neighbors are for

There was a knock at the door. I answered. “Do you have a wrench?” the neighbor boy asked, showing me his skateboard.

“Let me see,” I said, and I went to the toolbox, grabbing a monkey wrench, which I figured could be adjusted to fit anything.

“This?” I asked. He said no. He pointed to something on his skateboard and explained that the wrench needed to fit in there.

So I went back to the toolbox. I thought maybe a phillips screwdriver would fit in the hole.

“This?” I asked. Then the neighbor boy started laughing.

“Allen wrench!” the neighbor boy’s brother yelled from downstairs.

“Oh,” I said. “Just a sec.” I looked in the toolbox. There were free wrenches from Ikea.

“This?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, as I handed it to him and he tried it.

“You could have it,” I said. I can’t remember if he said thank you.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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