“Do you think we can do the guitar lessons like we were going to before I ruined everything?”

I freeze.

“Oh, sorry; here.” From her backpack she pulls a flyer that does look like something I’ve put together. “You were going to teach me, and then Ms. Kiko told me that you needed space, but you seem better and maybe now you don’t need so much space?”

I write everything I can into my notebook, but the thought of teaching sounds just like something I’d like to do, so I take a leap. “You know, yes, I think I’d really like to do this.” I check my phone. “Can you do tomorrow, Tuesday? At five?”

Her eyes get big. “Tomorrow! Oh, hell yeah—oops. Sorry, I mean, heck yes!” She looks at me expectantly, her eyes going from me to the notebook, back and forth like a cartoon character. “Did you write it down? Can you do that now so you won’t forget?”

I do, amused, feeling a tingle of excitement run through my arms. I’m going to teach.

Before I leave the gardens, I record the interaction with the girl, Maree, and when I get home, I’m pleased to discover a GUITAR LESSONS file folder in the wire slot holder on my desk. I nearly pat myself on the back for my organization. When I open it, I see that I already have one student, who started over the weekend. His name is Jarrod, and he works as boat watch during the winter, which means he keeps an eye on the boats in the harbor, sweeping off snow as necessary so they don’t sink. But his true calling, he says, is to be the next Bob Dylan and also, my eyebrows rise, he writes poetry. I can’t help but smile. The window presses inward from a gust of wind, creaking softly. I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and stare outside. The yellow glow of Whiskey Pete’s is one of the few lights that penetrates the deep afternoon dark.

A soft knock at my door.

Mom, holding a plate of cookies. My eyes widen, but before I say anything, she hands me a card.

Happiness, not in another place but this place . . . not for another hour, but this hour. —Walt Whitman

I live in Whittier now and I’m sober. I love you and I’m not going anywhere. Love, Mom

She holds the cookies out. “These were your favorite when you were three.” She smiles. “Until you turned four and decided you hated raisins.”

I take the plate, balance the note on top, and I find my smile is easy and comfortable. “Thanks.” I hold up the card. “Walt Whitman?”

“I recovered one day at a time, and it’s become kind of my thing.”

My forehead wrinkles. “Your thing?”