Sometime later, I have changed into jeans and a flannel shirt, and I think this is a major improvement because the structure of clothes against my body feels good, like I’ve lived in sweatpants and T-shirts. My hand automatically slides into the pocket of my shirt, pulls out a note card, and I am gutted. Dad died of a heart attack. I tell myself to breathe past the sob because this information is not new, even if it feels that way.

I have one activity buzzing on my phone. School Gardens. It’s a Saturday, so I should be able to do the job in solitude, which I feel like I need right now.

Today, I opt for the stairwell. It’s not always easy to get exercise here, especially with weather that plummets temperatures and dumps snow and rain in huge amounts during the long winter months when the sun refuses to share its light. So even when I was younger, I’d always take whatever opportunity I could to move. I jog down the stairs, listening to faint noises ping and pong against the cement walls of the stairwell. In the lobby I turn toward the exterior doors, intending to get some fresh air on my walk to the school, but a storm swells overhead, suppressing the light and covering the lobby doors in a white veil. I look outside. Gusts of wind slice through the snow, send it plummeting to the ground. I shiver; school tunnel it is, then.

The tunnel stretches long and narrow, with a low ceiling and walls painted in mountain scenes that pale in comparison to the real thing above my head. For someone my height, the tunnel should feel claustrophobic. But this is a journey I took often as a kid and then again as a young adult, just beginning my teaching career.

When I enter the school, I pass by the indoor playground and glance inside—empty, except for a vision of Leilani, swinging on the monkey bars. Her giggles follow me to the hydroponic gardens, where the air is warm, tangy with vegetation, and heavy with humidity. It was once a small setup of buckets and lights and has grown now to include a flood table with a floating platform that the kids built themselves. I know this because there are pictures throughout the space of the kids gardening and building the new system. I’m in some of the pictures too. It’s nice to know I had a hand in helping and being a part of its growth.

My phone buzzes. School Garden: water temp, prune, mist.

I take off my flannel shirt and hang it on the back of the door. Already I’m sweating from the added heat in the room, but it’s a perfect temperature for the plants.

“Can I help again?”