Then one afternoon, hauling compost, he said, unprompted, “This is stupid.

Why you even doing this?

You old.

You could be inside.” And instead of being offended I told him the truth, because I was too tired that day to manage anything else: that I didn’t know why I was doing it, that six months ago I’d had a whole life and a title and a reason to get up, and now I had a hoe and three beans, and I was as lost as he was, just older and better at hiding it.

He looked at me differently after that.