Last year, Robert Bergman moved into the house next door, and when he introduced himself to us, my ears rang loudly, told like alarm bells.

You know that feeling? That like fight or flight response? Strange, given that I knew nothing about him.

Rob was a tall man, topping out of like six, five.

Wear a glum book on his thin lips, lips half covered by his shaggy gray beard.

Beneath that bleak expression, he wore a loose-fitting clothes, green leather jacket, flared black trousers like some time-displaced, progged rocker.

My new neighbor looked a little odd.

No doubt about that, but I still wasn't sure why he unnerved me.

Have you noticed that he always limps? Ask asked my friend Steve a couple of months ago.

We were passing a football back and forth, half watching my oddball neighbor mow the lawn,

warring with the frost-tipped glasses.

I shrugged, rolled the ball back across the slippery gravel.

I don't know, man.

I try to steer clear of him, ten more months until I moved to uni.

Isn't Rob friends with your dad?

Steve asked.

You'll probably end up seeing him sometimes.

I sighed.

Don't remind me.

He chuckled.

You know, Danny, his right leg always seems to bulge a little more than the other.

I groan, and once again, we returned to Steve's podcast, Rob's Knob.

My friend tittered and let the football come to a stop.

...