For the past few days Meredith had risen early, before the sun. While her family slept she would bundle herself in a thick wool blanket to protect herself from the fall chill and drink coffee on the front porch of their old craftsman. Up until this point in her life she'd never considered herself a morning person. It was the quiet that forced her out of bed, that and the opportunity to languish in solitude. She watched the pink and orange hues saturate the sky, while the puffy clouds grew spotty and meager. Her steamy cup of coffee warmed her hands and she sat on the old deck chair.

"Morning, neighbor!"

Lewis Jatson, divorced, fortyish and overweight, had recently turned over a new leaf and decided to make fitness a priority in his life. Last night he had also decided to be more neighborly. One of Meredith's favorite things about Lewis, up until that morning, was that he kept to himself. Now he was standing on her front steps, dressed in spandex, and stretching.

"I didn't know you were an early riser," he continued in a goofy voice that one usually reserves for toddlers and kittens.

"Kind of a new thing," replied Meredith before taking a big sip of Sumatra.

Before Lewis could reply he was hit in the back of the head with a copy of the Star Bugle Morning Edition. Then Meredith sprayed him with a mouthful of coffee. She couldn't help herself.