They all make noises like they’re so impressed that an idiot junkie actually knew something. It’s weird how people make fun of drug addicts in a way that they would never make fun of other kinds of disabled people. I guess they think addicts do drugs like they do, all selfish and jolly, like it’s fun for them, like addicts live in a massive imaginary nightclub where it’s always the weekend and they’re having a jamboree. As if it doesn’t occur to addicts that they can just stop. They look at people suffering and see people partying.

“Now we approach the annual nightmare of endless zucchini peeling,” Grace drawls, sounding almost British.

“You peel zucchini?” It’s a relief to hear Agata say what I was just thinking.

“Everyone peels zucchini.”

“No one peels zucchini. Why would you peel zucchini?”

All three are still putting down and taking up cards, but Ruth seems to be taking advantage of the distraction the other two are indulging over vegetable prep.

“It takes out the bitterness.”

“It does not.”

“It does too. Earl, you peel zucchini, don’t you?” The way Grace says Earl kind of sounds like a car swerving hard into a U-turn.

“Sure, when I’m making raw pasta, you mean?”

“No, before you cook it, you peel it, right?”

“Why would you peel zucchini?”

Grace puts her cards down in her lap. “You mean that I’ve spent nigh on three-quarters of a century peeling zucchinis to no end whatsoever?”

The question hangs for a bit, and they all laugh.

Earl’s putting some tools away, so I ask him what he needs help with.

“Well.” He takes a long pause and looks out across the garden. “The compost heap could use a turn, and the two beds on the far left, see, those two at the end? They need a bit of weeding. Think you can handle that?”

He gives me a rough pat on the shoulder like he’s the coach and I’m the quarterback.

I grab some gloves and the pitchfork and hike out to the compost heap. Its stink is hot and satisfying. I almost drink it. It resists the fork, exhales in my face as I rip it apart and fold it over on itself. Worms panic. Gases rush the atmosphere. My back and arms ache. I work the mound over until I start to feel sick and realize I forgot to eat again.

I wonder for a second where everyone else is, before remembering that they mostly avoid gardening in the early afternoon. But I think that advice is just for old people and white people. The blondes are in the shade, probably waiting until later to start again. As I return to put down the pitchfork, the telltale coconut scent coming from Earl’s deep brown skin reminds me that I really should start wearing sunblock, but I always forget.