It didn't feel like Indian Summer
The street was silent. The stairs didn't squeak. The lights were off and no one said anything. The woman breathed, but that was all. On the phone she had said "OK" but now, here, I sat looking at her as she sat looking at her hands. We sat like that for a long time.
"He was a good boy," she finally said.
"You speak of him in the past tense."
"Well," she said, "he is dead."
Then we were silent again.