“I got it. Don’t worry,” Evelynn says, her voice softened just a tad, as she begins to sweep.

Zoey nods, biting her lip and, in another sign of an impending breakdown, giving a loud sniffle.

I suddenly remember that I have a clean HankyBook in my messenger bag. Jordan and I bought a three-pack last year (I realize now she kept the extra one for herself). It’s a handsewn Kleenex substitute, made of 100 percent organic cotton and shaped like a book with eight small pages. You use it like a handkerchief and turn the page each time you have a new use for it. And when it’s “full” so to speak, you toss it in the laundry. It’s supposed to last for years. I’m not quite at the level of composting, but I try to do my part here and there.

I walk back over to our table, and grab it out of my messenger bag. By the time I’ve made it back over to Zoey, the tears are falling fast and free.

“Shit,” she says, wiping at her face.

“Here,” I say, crouching beside her and handing her the HankyBook. She stares at it in confusion.

“What is this?” she says, holding the floral-covered fabric book between her thumb and forefinger.

I explain the basic gist. “Just turn to a new page—it’s perfectly clean.”

She starts to open it, but she’s turning in the wrong direction, to the previously sneezed-in section, which is terrible on many levels. “No!” I shout. “Never go backward. Always forward, always moving forward.”

She flails and flings the HankyBook at my chest. “I don’t want your analogy rags!”

Her cheeks are still wet. I give up on saving trees and hand her a fistful of napkins.

“I guess it is a good metaphor for life,” she sniffles. “Never go back. Always move forward. Easier said than done, though.”

She peers at me with her mostly dry eyes. Her eyelashes are damp and I don’t know why, but it’s pretty. “Why are you being so nice to me? Comrade,” she adds, a small smile on her face.

“I . . . I just wanted to make sure you marked down who won today in your little chart,” I respond as I hold out my hand to help her up. “The last two days, actually. Go ahead, open your notebook. I’ll wait.”

She laughs. “I thought you couldn’t care less who gets the table.”

“I don’t,” I say. “But since you’re the one who wants to keep score, I just want to make sure you’re doing it fairly.” We’ve both unintentionally walked over to the big table so that we’re now standing on either side of it.

“Uh-huh.” She noisily slides out the chair she’s standing by and sits down in it. “You really think you won two days in a row?”