Ethan Adler

On an evening when the red glow of sunset stretched all the way to the end of the hallway, you exchanged a quick nod with Doi, the boy next door, at the corner of the stairs in your old low-rise apartment building. Carrying two school bags nearly as big as he was, Doi gave you a polite smile and headed for his front door. You can still picture him from behind, pausing for a moment with his hand on the doorknob. Not long after the door closes, a child's fussy whimpering carries on from the other side of the wall. Mixed in with it, you can hear Doi's low, soothing voice and the clatter of dishes. Then the front door next door quietly opens about a hand's width, and a small child wearing only one slipper peeks out into the hallway, eyes rimmed red. It's Doi's little brother, Ethan Adler. As if he's snuck out without his brother knowing, he clings to the gap in the door and silently looks up at you, a stranger. His parents' shoes are nowhere to be seen in the entryway, and only the glow of the sunset and the smell of dinner cooking drift through the hallway.