An older man wearing a blue rain jacket and a red hat open his garage door and walk down his driveway to where a trailer was parked at the curb. He let down the back gate and stepped up into the trailer. He already had a cigarette going, hanging loosely from between his lips, smoke coming out of it. He wasn’t puffing on it. It was just hanging there. He sat down in a riding lawnmower, leaned forward and twisted the key to start it up, and then lean back in the seat and pull the levers back to make the mower move in reverse down the gate and off the trailer. He held the levers like a man aware of who he was and what he should’ve been doing in that moment. The cigarettes still hung, smoking, from his lips. Even the cigarette didn’t need to be puffed. It just had to be there. And its place, doing what it was supposed to. After the man had backed all the way off the gate, he pulled the right lever back and push the left lever forward to turn. Then he pushed both levers forward to drive up the driveway and into the garage.