Troye's mother had always told him to stay away from strangers, even nice ones, unless they were one of his teachers or classmates from school.
"Don't open the door to anyone Troye, especially if mommy isn't home."
"Don't talk to any strange adults on the playground Troye, even if they look nice."
"If someone asks you to help them find their lost puppy, tell them your mommy is waiting for you in the car and walk away."
Troye was pretty good at following his mother's directions, and he always made sure to stay away from people he didn't know on his walk home from school. Sometimes he would bring flowers to Mrs. Bixenman, the old lady next door who liked to sit out on her front porch and knit horrendous sweaters, but Troye's mother had told him that Mrs. Bixenman was okay.
"A very nice woman," Troye's mother had said when he asked about the old lady after they first moved in a few months ago, "It's a shame she's in that big house all by herself. I'm sure she would love it if you stopped by every once in a while."
Troye took this to mean that he should stop by every day, because Troye was a nice boy and he liked doing nice things for nice people (who weren't strangers). Also, sometimes Mrs. Bixenman would give him treats. Today she had cookies.
"I hope you like chocolate-chip, Troye." she says, holding out a tray of warm, spotted cookies in her wrinkly hands as he approaches her front porch.
"Of course, Mrs. Bixenman,"Troye says, taking a bunch even though sugar cookies were his favorite. "All of your cookies are always the best." He gives her a thumbs up and stuffs one of the cookies in his mouth, a few crumbs escaping the corner of his lips as he munches on it dutifully.
"Now Troye, what would your mother think if she heard you saying that?"
"My mommy doesn't have time to bake. She's a para ... a parallel."
Mrs. Bixenman stares down at him fondly, placing a hand on his head.
"You mean a paralegal, honey."
Troye nods, shoving another cookie in his mouth so he doesn't have to repeat the big word Mrs. Bixenman just said.
"Well," Mrs. Bixenman says, setting the tray down on the table next to her rocking chair, "If you ever want me to bake you something, Troye, you're always welcome in my house."
"Thanks Mrs. Bixenman! See you tomorrow!" Troye replies, before turning around and jumping down her porch steps. Mrs. Bixenman watches with as he skips away down the sidewalk.
Troye comes to a stop on his own front porch next door, tugging on the little rope around his neck and pulling out his house key. He unlocks the front door and pushes it open, locking it again once he's inside.
Running through his house, Troye carelessly throws his backpack onto the kitchen floor and leaves the rest of the cookies he'd grabbed from Mrs. Bixenman on the counter for later. It's only three o'clock, which means Troye has plenty of time to play outside before his mother comes home and forces him to do his homework. He runs into the living room and unlocks the sliding door that leads to the backyard, sliding it open just enough so that he can squeeze through. After making sure that the door shuts behind him (he'd gotten in trouble for that one time; a mouse had run into the house and his mother nearly had a heart attack), he bounds off into the backyard, snagging his hand shovel off the stairs on his way down.
"Where to this time?" Troye asks his shovel, scanning the backyard for a good patch of digging ground. The weather's been getting colder outside, which means that there isn't as much grass on the ground to deter Troye from digging up the whole backyard (although his mother would probably scold him for doing so). It also means that the ground is a lot harder, however, so it's not like Troye can just pick any old spot to start digging. "How about here?" Troye says, coming to a stop at a patch of dirt closer to the edge of the dense woods lining his backyard.
