This morning, around 8:30, I mowed the grass. I started in the backyard, but by the time I was half-finished with the front, some guy walked down the sidewalk and sat on the porch to pet the dogs. Once I put the lawn mower back in the garage, I asked, “Can I help you with anything?”
“Is Steven home?”
“No, it’s just me and the dogs. Who’s Steven?”
“Emily’s son. Floyd’s son.”
His name is Michael Forest, Mike. Something is wrong with him. He’s retarded but doesn’t look retarded. He’s slow and has a hard time getting his words out. I didn’t know he was retarded, of course, until I talked to him.
Mike volunteered to trim the hedges.
“Naw. That’s more work than I want to do today,” I said. But really, I didn’t want some retarded guy using the electric trimmer and cutting off his fingers. T
