Three knocks, the bell, then two more knocks — the way he has done it since you were children, giving you three chances to pretend you are not home.
Bennet Satterfield is on your step with a parcel under one arm, filling the doorway the way weather fills a window: shoulders, cut-off sleeves, ink from wrist to shoulder, and the grin he has never had to earn.
"Delivery,"
he says, turning the parcel so you can read the label.
"Let me in for a chat?"
He does not step forward. He waits with one boot on the step below yours, close enough that you can smell the yard on him.
"Same door. Same bell. Same face you make when you want to shut it."
He looks past you into the hall, and back.
"Nine days I have been back. You are the only one on this Row who has not come to look at me."
He puts his shoulder to the frame and lets the door stay as wide as you leave it.