“The peanut butter pie. But it’s better if you add chocolate, dribble it over the top. The real stuff. And don’t swap out the graham-cracker crust for anything you think might be better. Because it won’t be, I promise. And use real butter—as you can tell I’m not into low-fat anything.”

“You don’t need to be,” I replied because she’s wiry and strong.

This same young woman is in front of Benton and me on the sidewalk along Quincy Street, holding her iPhone in its ice-blue case, clamping it back into its black plastic holder, and she accidently fumbles her water bottle, sending it tumbling. It thuds to the sidewalk, rolling in our direction, and Benton bends down to pick it up.

“Sorry. Thanks very much.” She looks hot, her face flushed and dripping.

“You definitely don’t want to be without this today.” He returns the bottle to her, and she secures it in its holder as I notice a young man trotting through the grass of the Faculty Club.

Her rimless sunglasses are directed at him as she remounts the bike, steadying herself, the toes of her sneakers touching the sidewalk. He’s dark and thin, in slacks and a button-up shirt as if he works in an office. Then he’s in front of her, hot and grinning, handing her a FedEx envelope that’s labeled but not sealed.

“Thanks,” he says. “Just put the tickets in and it’s ready to go.”

“I’ll drop it off on my way home. See you later.” She kisses him on the lips.

Then he trots away, back toward the Faculty Club, where I gather he must work. She puts on her helmet, not bothering with the strap that’s supposed to be snug under her chin. Turning to me, she flashes a smile.

“You’re the peanut-butter-pie lady,” she says.

“What a nice way to be characterized. Hello again.” I smile back at her, and I almost remind her to lock her chin strap.

But I don’t know her. I don’t want to be overbearing, especially after being accused of yelling at Bryce and disturbing the peace.

“Please be careful out here,” I say instead. “The heat index is hazardous.”

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” She grips the flat riser handlebars, pushing down the pedals with long strong strokes.

“Not always,” Benton says.

I feel the hot air stir sluggishly as she rides past.

“Enjoy the pie and the play!” she tosses back at us, and she reminds me of my niece, sharp-featured, bold and extremely fit.