The Perfect Neighbor

James was out before dawn again. Martin watched from behind his curtains—the scratch of metal on concrete, the rhythmic shoveling, the small mountains of snow piling higher at the edges of each driveway. Their street, clean and passable while others remained buried.

Martin's coffee went cold. He hadn't slept right in weeks.

"He did the Hendersons' walk too," Lisa said, appearing beside him. "Even salted their steps." Her voice carried something—admiration laced with accusation. The unspoken comparison hung between them like frost.

Last night: "James built a skating rink for the neighborhood kids."

Last week: "James helped Mrs. Peterson with her groceries."

Last month: "James fixed the Wilsons' porch light."

Each good deed a small cut.

Martin watched James finish the Rodriguez driveway and move toward theirs. He stepped back from the window, shame burning his face.

That evening, Lisa slid a bowl in front of him. "James dropped off some of his famous chili. Says it'll warm us right up."

Martin pushed it away, mumbling about not being hungry.

In bed, he stared at the ceiling, calculating weeks until thaw. Beside him, Lisa breathed evenly, dreaming perhaps of better men. Outside, snow began falling again, covering everything in perfect, accusing white.