Five Seconds at the Door Decided If She Trusted the Heat Pump Guy
She was standing behind the storm door with her arms folded before I had the truck in park. It was the second week of August, one of those afternoons when the thermometer on my dash said 104 and the south wind felt like somebody had opened an oven door. The house was a brick ranch on a county road, built sometime in the seventies. It had pecan trees out front and a long gravel drive, the kind you walk in the open where anybody inside can watch you come. The homeowner was a retired schoolteacher, widowed, living alone. Her air had been blowing warm since breakfast, and by the time I got there…
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