And so is our makeshift food stand. We’re here to provide sustainable sustenance, but we’re also here to provide a much-needed sense of normalcy. At least that’s what Julia says when we are all bleary-eyed from getting up before the sun—our breath heavy as we drag our giant coolers of food to the top of a steep, grassy knoll. It’s exhausting, but I’m so glad my parents are finally letting me pitch in and share in the burden of making money. I’m helping them, but they’re helping me, too. Here, I can almost pretend that time still moves at a normal pace. Even in the era of a novel virus, people can still leave their house, drive to a park, buy a fake burger, sit under a tree, and be thankful that a wildfire hasn’t kept us all inside.

“How much of the mac and cashew cheese do we have left?” Julia asks me.

I look through the remaining aluminum tins and tell her we’ve sold all but one serving.

“Save it for yourself,” she says with a wink.

I already know this will be the part of the day I like best. It’s almost noon, and since we’ve sold the bulk of our food, we can sit and relax before packing it in. Tomorrow, I’ll remember to bring an easel and what remains of my art supplies. I’d like to paint a still life of this hillside, like that famous Georges Seurat painting, except with everyone wearing surgical masks. It’s odd how it only took a couple of months to get used to the sight of people wandering around with half their faces covered. This isn’t the new normal anymore. It’s just normal. The premask era feels like a figment of my imagination.

The buzzing of my phone stops me from taking my break and digging into the mac and cheese.

I pull down my mask to get the face recognition to work and find a message from Wes.

Look up, it says.

I scan the crowd in front of me, and, sure enough, I’m able to pick out Wes sitting under a tree about twenty feet away, strumming his guitar. He waves. I wave back and feel my stomach do a somersault.

He sends another text: Can you go for a walk?

For some reason, it feels against the rules to go on a walk with him. Even if we’re wearing masks, and we stay the appropriate distance apart. And yet, what’s the big deal? I’ve had strangers across from me all day, handing me cash. How risky could it be to go on a quick stroll with someone I know? I text back and tell him that I’ll pretend I’m making a trip to the car. He should head to the parking lot, and we can walk on opposite sides of the lane.