Two days. Ruth Henderson had been lying on her own kitchen floor for two days, and I’m the one who found her. Not her son. Not her daughter. The mailman. And I haven’t even delivered her mail since 2014.

Let me back up a little, because I think you need to know how I ended up standing in her kitchen at 6:20 in the morning.

My name’s Walter. I carried mail on Route 7 for 38 years. Retired in the spring of 2014, threw me a little cake party at the post office, gave me a clock, the whole thing. And then I went home and didn’t know what to do with myself. My wife Carol had passed the year before, so the house was real quiet. Too quiet. After about a week of sitting in that quiet, I got up at 6 in the morning out of pure habit and I walked my old route. Just to walk it. I’ll be honest with you, I think I needed somewhere to go more than they needed me.

But here’s the thing. Along that route I’ve got 23 folks I keep an eye on. All older. Most of them lived there back when I was still carrying. Every morning, 6:15 sharp, four miles, I knock twice on each door. If they wave, I move on. If nobody answers, I check the back. That’s the deal I made with myself. Took me years to build up to all 23, but mind you, I had the time.

Ruth was my favorite, though I’d never tell the others. She’d come to the front window in her robe and give me this little two-finger wave, like a queen. Sometimes she’d crack the door and we’d talk a minute about nothing.

The birds. Her tomatoes. Her knee. And every week or so she’d tell me about her kids.