From a cabinet labeled serving bowls, platters, and plates, I take my favorite turquoise salad bowl and set it on the counter beside the bamboo cutting board. The salad doesn’t take long to make, and I get it all on the table by 5:30. I sit and wait; fingers tap the wood surface, knee jiggles up and down. On the table in front of me is my notebook. I open it to a page in the middle with today’s date and review the activities I accomplished early in the day, each one with a thick black line drawn through it: breakfast, planning and note review for today, shower, lunch, trip to market and hydroponic gardens, planning and note review for tomorrow. I draw a line through make a chicken Caesar salad for the dinner party but leave dinner party unmarked. It hasn’t happened yet, after all.

I read through the social-event file folder again and cross off the items I’ve already accomplished. Based on my notes, I still need to make a list of talking points for conversation, so I turn to the portable file cabinet and locate and remove files for Sefina and Harriet. When I was in college, most of my classmates laughed at my old-school ways: paper planner, pens and pencils, notebooks. I guess I was behind the times in that regard, but the smooth glide of pen over paper, the satisfaction of crossing off a To Do item, the crisp pages of a new planner—well, to me, tapping on a screen or keyboard never felt as satisfying.

I read the first page in Sefina’s file. Her youngest daughter, Leilani, is graduating this year. My pencil hovers and I let the shock wash over me. The passage of time is cruel and unrelenting, especially for me. Once upon a very brief period, I was a teacher at the school in Whittier, and Leilani was my student. That was before, though, when I was normal, and before notebooks and calendars and smartphones fully dictated my every day. Fresh out of graduate school, armed with a degree and an unexpected surprise, I was excited to start my life back in Whittier, even if it devastated Dad.

My hand rests on my flat belly, fingers pushing into softness. Dad always warned me that something bad would happen if I stayed in Whittier. I press the heel of my palm against my eyes, ignore the tightness in my limbs. There’s no point in feeling sorry for myself, so I move on to my next conversation note for Sefina. When I finish with her, I start a list for Harriet, who runs the building’s bed-and-breakfast.

Rain pummels the window, and the constant thrumming combined with the music causes my head to ache. I put my pen down to rub my temples and stretch my neck when a light knock on the door startles me. I check my watch. They must be early.