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Darlene at her mailbox one afternoon.
“Hey, I need a favor,” he said, flashing that smile he probably thought was charming. “Can you keep an eye on my lawn while I’m gone? Just have your gardener swing by every couple of weeks.
Darlene’s 90, barely five feet tall, and the sweetest person you’ll ever meet. The kind of woman who bakes cookies for the mail carrier and remembers everyone’s birthday.
Of course, she said yes.
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” she told him.
“I’m happy to help.”
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