A bee came at his ear.

He swatted twice, missed both times, and did a quick sideways shuffle on the gravel that would have been funny in another year.

“Every spring,” he said.

“The roses.”

I laughed.

It came out of me before I could stop it, one honest sound in an afternoon of nothing honest, and he grinned like he had won a small prize.

Then he put his arm around me, and we walked the length of the hedge.