I settled in to pick at a steady rhythm: one for me, five for the basket, and so on. Hunger problem solved. I tossed the overripe ones to the hens. When my stomach stopped growling and my muscles started to cramp, I stopped for a break. Five pints picked. A decent start. Stretching my back, I looked around to see who else was enjoying the sun and clear air. Up on Level Six, set back to create the terraces on Five, one of our garden gurus was teaching two Smith teeners how to prune storm-damage off the peach trees. A small maintenance crew repaired a section of the perimeter chain link, ripped away in the last big blow. Down at the eastern end of Five, Jenn and Ellie Mae had teamed up to bind the tomato vines to their cages. Of all the garden veggies, the tomatoes were the most pampered, kept down here in a sheltered spot.

Digging, weeding, thinning, cutting, pulling. Soothing and regular. I actually liked roof duty . . . except when it meant being left behind. For now, the sun and air were a fair trade. I shook off my irritation and felt, for a moment, at peace.

But there was always the threat of the empty glass towers to the north and east. Not even squatters lived up there, least not for long. Still in the shadow of last night’s grim news, hard not to see every shattered window as a potential sniper perch. Or a source of unguided missiles. The wind would howl in one empty frame and straight out another, stirring up a shit storm of paper and loose junk, dragging office chairs and dining tables till they piled up against the broken glass and blew right out into the street. Or onto our terraces, like during Joseph. Wouldn’t we be more secure in a den where nothing loomed over us? Like, on a boat. Out on the water, you’re the tallest thing around. Out there, no one’s shooting at you. Oh. Except. Except . . . what? I snatched at this latest memory shred, but it was gone with the breeze.

Muttering to myself, I gathered up my filled pint boxes to move them to the shade, turned, and nearly slammed into Daniel, standing in the path before me.

I must have staggered. He reached both hands to steady me. “Hey. Sorry.”

I backed away, hands full of berry boxes.

“Didn’t mean to startle you. I said hello. You were . . . somewhere else.”

“I was . . . yes.” I squinted at him. Couldn’t shed the glare off the waves. Daniel’s face was like my father’s in memory: lost in a flare of light. I fumbled the pint boxes. I’d forgotten a tray to carry them in.

“Need some help with those?”

I thrust them at him. “Over there. In the shade.”

He hesitated. “Sure you don’t need some shade yourself?”