At midnight I turn off the light and sit in the dark until 2 a.m. This, I have found, is the best time to go visiting.

I go to the drawer where we keep the keys. My wife and I are older than most of the other couples on the block. We’ve lived on this street since we first married and have watched families come and go. It’s a stable neighborhood; homes here are sought after by young couples starting out. We’ve felt no need to move. We’re looked up to here, I believe, and are considered dependable and generous. Our neighbors greet us on the street and in the winter we can usually count on having our walks shoveled for us. Because we rarely travel, we are often asked to watch houses, feed pets, and water plants while the homeowners vacation. We have, therefore, quite a collection of keys. I sift though them now, reading labels, considering choices. Finally, I choose the Whittaker’s key, and slide the drawer closed. I trade my slippers for tennis shoes, slip on my jacket, ease open the front door and step out into the night. The neighborhood is quiet, as one would expect at this hour. I can hear the trucks shifting gears on the highway a mile or so away. In the distance, a dog barks once, twice, and then is still. The air is crisp and fresh, and the sky is clear.

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