From the other rooms of the gallery came the sounds of hammering and buzzing saws, and I put in my earbuds, turned my phone to the Spotify Top Hits playlist, and lost myself in the music as I worked. People didn’t appreciate how lucky they were to be able to listen to music any time they wanted. I felt nearly overcome by the thought. People didn’t appreciate their freedom, that was all there was to it. I was never going back in that hellhole.

Cleaning the paint with the cotton-wrapped dowel was slow going, but I discovered I liked the work. Nodding my head to the music in my ears, I cleaned the squares, inch by inch. I was cautious not to disturb any paint that might be loose, and I could instantly see the difference I was making. When I finished the first square, I climbed down the ladder, my shoulders already aching, and was stunned to look up and see the vibrancy I’d revealed, despite the fact that there wasn’t much going on in that corner of the painting. The ship Anna had painted there was still covered with grime, but the sky above it was now a pretty—though mildly abraded in spots—gray-blue. I smiled to myself. When was the last time I’d felt satisfaction in something I’d done? When was the last time I’d felt that shudder of genuine joy? Crazy that one square foot of a clean painting could make me feel that way. Then my gaze traveled to the grungy seventy-one square feet I had left to clean and I groaned, rubbing my shoulder. This would take me forever, and it was only the first step in the restoration. I would have to pick up the pace.

I didn’t eat lunch with Adam and Wyatt and the other construction workers on the front lawn, despite their invitation to join them. I wasn’t ready to make idle conversation with anyone—did I still know how? I noticed Oliver didn’t eat with them, either. He stayed in his office, the door closed. So I walked to a nearby café called Nothing Fancy, savoring the music of Post Malone and Maroon 5 in my ears. I ordered a takeout chicken-salad sandwich and sat on a bench outside to eat it. I thought about the AA meeting I’d attended the night before. It had felt strange, being at an AA meeting with a group of nonprisoners, not to mention being in a meeting with mostly men. I hadn’t shared. Hadn’t uttered a word except when I asked the guy leading the meeting if he’d sign the form proving I’d attended. I was done with drinking, and listening to everyone’s sad stories only irritated me. I hadn’t had a drink in fourteen months. Even without the monitor on my ankle, I knew I was finished with it.