December 23, 1970

I didn’t like moving.

The new house smelled like paint and lemon cleaner, and the floors creaked more than the ones back in the city. The walls were too white. The rooms were too quiet. Even the air felt sharper, like it hadn't learned how to soften yet.

Mom said it was “a fresh start.”
I didn't know what that meant, but I knew it made her sad to say it.

The backyard had a fence. Old, wood-planked, with faded green paint that peeled when you touched it. I liked hiding behind it. From there, I could watch the neighbor’s house without being seen — not because I wanted to spy. I just... didn’t know how to go over and say hi.

That’s where I first saw him.

He was playing in the snow, kind of recklessly, like he wasn’t afraid of falling. His dark hair stood out in all directions, and he wore a puffy green jacket that made him look like a caterpillar. He kept laughing at something I couldn’t hear, tossing a red ball against the fence and catching it over and over.

He looked loud.

I stayed quiet.

Most days, I just watched from the fence. Sometimes I would bring a book out and pretend to read. Sometimes I’d make shapes in the snow with my boots to pass the time.

I didn’t think he noticed me.

But he did.

One day, while I was crouched near the fence with a cookie in my hand — soft, warm, still a little gooey in the middle — I heard footsteps behind me. Not from the neighbor’s yard, but from the house.

“Noah,” my mom called gently.

I looked over my shoulder. She was bundled up in a long beige coat, arms crossed but not in that angry way — just holding herself against the cold. Her eyes weren’t scolding me. They were smiling a little.

“You’ve been out here for a while.” She stepped forward and crouched beside me. “Are you watching that boy again?”

My face went hot. “No.”

She smiled for real this time and peeked over the fence.

The boy was out there again, this time digging something in the snow with a stick. His red ball sat abandoned beside him.

“He looks your age,” Mom said. “Have you two talked yet?”

I didn’t answer.

She nudged me with her shoulder. “You could go say hi, you know.”

I shook my head.

Mom sighed, but she didn’t push it. Instead, she stood, dusted the snow from her coat, and called out over the fence:
“Hi there!”

I panicked.

The boy… Caleb… looked up, startled.

He stood up slowly and peeked over. “Uh... hi?”

“I’m Noah’s mom,” she said warmly. “We just moved in next door. What’s your name?”

“Caleb.”

“Well, Caleb,” she said, “since you two are going to be neighbors, maybe you should meet. Noah’s a little shy, but he’s friendly once he warms up.”

I could’ve melted into the ground.

“Okay,” Caleb said, shrugging. “Can I come over?”

I stared at Mom, pleading silently. She just smiled and stepped back toward the door.

“Go play, Noah,” she said softly. “You’ve got half a cookie — maybe you can share.”

And then she left.

I sat frozen for a few seconds, wondering if I could still run.

But Caleb didn’t wait.

A minute later, his red ball bounced over the top of the fence and landed at my feet. Then his hands appeared, gripping the top plank, and he hoisted himself up, balancing on something — a tree stump maybe — on his side.

He peered down at me.

“You're the new kid,” he said, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

I nodded.

He looked at the cookie still in my hand. “Is that a chocolate chip?”

I hesitated, then held it out to him.

He blinked. “You’re giving it to me?”

I didn’t answer. Just shrugged.

He jumped down beside me like it wasn’t a big deal. Took the cookie, broke it in half, and handed the bigger piece back to me.

“I’m Caleb,” he said. “You don’t talk much, huh?”

I shook my head.

He didn’t seem to mind.

A door opened on his side of the house. It didn’t slam — it creaked, then clicked shut.

A woman stepped out, bundled in a thick red coat, her dark hair tied up in a loose bun. She looked tired, like she hadn’t slept well in a few nights, but her eyes softened when they landed on Caleb, and then widened just slightly when she saw me.

She stepped closer to the fence.

“Caleb?” she called. “Who’s your friend?”

Caleb looked up at her and pointed. “This is Noah. He’s new.”

I stiffened. My hands were cold now, cookie crumbs sticking to my glove.

From behind me, I heard my own front door open again.
“Hi there,” my mom called, her voice light.

The two women met at the fence — not quite at the same time, but close enough that it felt like a mirror tilting to meet itself.

“Hi, I’m Lina. Caleb’s mom,” she said first.

“Margarett,” Mom replied “Noah’s.”

They shook hands over the wooden planks, laughed a little about the cold, asked the usual questions: how long we’d been here, what brought us to town, and how old we were. I don’t remember the words — just the sound of grown-up voices making space for something.

Caleb was picking at the snow with a stick. He didn't seem to care.

Then, as if summoned by the sudden calm, a baby’s cry cut through the air from his side of the house — loud and wobbly.

“That’s my sister,” Caleb said, not even glancing back. “She’s, like, always crying. Mom says it’s normal. I think she’s just mad at the world.”

I didn’t know what to say to that either.

Caleb plopped down into the snow, cross-legged, and started drawing a circle with his glove. “Wanna play astronauts?”

I stared at him.

He looked up. “Or space pirates? Or ninjas? I can be quiet if you want. I’m good at sneaking around.”

I didn’t even realize I was smiling until he smiled back.

That was the first day we played together.
He never asked why I watched from behind the fence.

And I never asked why he seemed so eager to climb over it.