Then he stopped and pressed one hand against his lower back.
“He’ll probably figure it out,” I said.
Noah kept watching.
Mr. Vance bent down, apparently trying to inspect something near the engine, and nearly lost his balance.
Noah immediately put down his cereal spoon.
“I’m doing his yard.”
“You could ask first.”
“He’ll say no.”
“Probably.”
Noah disappeared into the garage.
Five minutes later, he was pushing our mower across the street.
I stood at the kitchen window fully expecting Mr. Vance to wave him away.
Instead, the old man stared at Noah for several seconds.
Noah said something I couldn’t hear.
Mr. Vance looked toward his lawn.
Then he pointed toward the side yard.
Noah nodded.
That was it.
For the next four years, from spring until late fall, Noah mowed Mr. Vance’s lawn every Saturday morning.
He never accepted money.
The first time I suggested he should, he looked almost offended.
“You should at least let him give you twenty dollars,” I told him.
“Why?”
“Because you’re doing work.”
