A few weeks later, a small package showed up at the back door. No return address. Inside was a thank-you card in the same careful handwriting and a photo of Emily and her son in a backyard—sunlight on grass, a dog mid-bounce, two people who looked like they could breathe again. We’re okay, the note read. Because of a stranger who wasn’t a stranger when it mattered.
Lydia keeps the photo on the fridge with a magnet shaped like a coffee mug. I see it every morning when I pack lunches. Every night when I open the door and let out the day. It reminds me that the world is a relay, and you never know when it’s your turn to carry the next inch.
