The neighborhood kids playing in the street dropped their bikes and hid behind a bush next door. Mr. Crandall T. Wentworth III opened his front door.
Lines covered the old man’s face, drooping down in seemingly perpetual indifference to the world. Lines of indifference that the kids, now silent behind the bush, knew could quickly turn if one inch of perfectly manicured lawn turned out of place. A lawn that mirrored the man's immaculately cared for appearance and home.
Mr. Wentworth III paused at the edge of the wrap-around porch and scanned his lawn. He widened his scrutiny and the lines in his face tipped further down momentarily upon noticing the haphazardly strewn bikes across his neighbor’s parking strip. He strode carefully down the white, spotless walkway and made his way to the front edge of his property to a small tower of solid brick.
Each day was the same. No mail had arrived for him. The kids had overheard their moms gossiping about how Mr. Wentworth III had threatened to sue the United States Postal Service if they did not stop delivering the ads that arrived each Tuesday at every house on the street. But for eight years, ever since Mrs. Crandall Wentworth III died, the mailman had been religious about not delivering any unwanted mail at the Wentworth residence. And yet, Mr. Wentworth III continued his ritual walk to the mailbox every day.
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