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Eli was the only person she let near her. The quiet boy from two houses down, her best friend since sixth grade, would walk over after school with her homework folded under his arm.
He never knocked too loud. He never asked her questions.
He shrugged like it was nothing. To him, I think it was.
Some afternoons I would find them on the porch, not speaking, Hazel’s head tipped sideways against the railing while Eli sketched something in a notebook.
“Mrs. Mave,” he said one afternoon, looking up at me. He had called me that since he was twelve, when he decided calling me only by my first name felt too casual and anything more formal felt too far. “She ate half a sandwich today.”
“Thank you, Eli.”
“For what?”
“For sitting with her.”
I found her journals once.
He shrugged like it was nothing. To him, I think it was.
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