Strawberry shortcake bars had been my favorite ice cream when I was a child.
But that was something I hadn’t told Ellie.
It was a small detail from a childhood I rarely talked about.
“Did you tell him my name?” I asked.
“No.”
“Did you tell him I used to eat those?”
“No.”
“Did you tell him anything about me?”
Ellie shook her head.
That was when the situation stopped feeling like an older man simply being kind to neighborhood children.
Something about it bothered me.
So the next time I heard the ice cream truck coming down our street, I went outside with Ellie.
The truck stopped near the curb.
The driver looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties. He had gray hair, a baseball cap, glasses, and the ordinary appearance of someone who had probably spent years driving around neighborhoods selling ice cream to children.
