When I found an extension cord from my neighbor Ron’s garage plugged into my house’s socket, I was furious—it was my electricity bill! Ron laughed it off, saying it was “just pennies.” I installed a lockable cover. The next morning, a note slid through my letterbox: “You’re colder than your electricity, mate.” It stung. Ron and I used to be friendly—barbecues, shared tools—but after his wife’s death, he withdrew. I’d tried reaching out, but when I saw the cord, I snapped.
That night, his garage was dark. Worried, I checked on him and found him collapsed. He had diabetes, no working fridge, and his power was cut off—that’s why he used my socket. I called an ambulance, and he survived. Feeling guilty, I apologized for not asking why he needed help. He brushed it off, but we reconnected. I helped with groceries and appliances; neighbors pitched in too. Ron’s spark returned.
Later, he built me a bench with a plaque: “The Cord Between Us.” It wasn’t about electricity—it was about connection. Ron moved closer to town, but left the bench. A year later, a carving arrived: two houses, a wire between them, inscribed, “It’s not the power you share. It’s the warmth.” Small gestures—notes, knocks—reconnect us. The best current we offer is care.
