Hard rub of her toe against a piece of gravel. Slow shake of her head. She pulls a pack of cigarettes from her bag, a lighter. He eats his carrots. Karen stubs her cigarette out before it’s half gone, brushing ash from the hood of the car. Offers him the butt; he takes it to the trash. There would have been bones in it, he thinks. The clavicle in its place, spine growing its first spiked knobs. Boy or girl or whatever it was meant to be. He gives her his apple. She takes it. Do you think it’s wrong, she says, quiet. What? She looks at him, brow knit. You care so much about life. I don’t think you’re wrong, he says, and she catches the distinction, between it and you, and nods, head down. Touching her elbow to his, sleeve against sleeve. Hands him back the apple. He finishes it. Core into the hedge. Is it better than putting it in the trash? she says. Something can eat it, he says. Squirrel or something. Yes, she says, pinkie pulling at the corner of her eye. Something. Deep breath. So did you think about what you wanted to do? Yeah, he says. I want you to read this. Pulling Interior Castle from his pocket. She takes it without hesitation. Okay. We’ll talk about it. What else. He thinks. I don’t know. Maybe we can talk about gardening. She laughs. Gardening. Great. He wonders if it happened before Christmas, or after. If she was alone. She has never mentioned a boyfriend, a husband; he can’t remember her mentioning anyone else in her life at all, a friend, parents, siblings, nothing. Back inside, she opens Interior Castle, turning to the pages he marked. But note very carefully, daughters, that the silkworm has of necessity to die; and it is this which will cost you most; for death comes more easily when one can see oneself living a new life, whereas our duty now is to continue living this present life, and yet to die of our own free will. What does this mean, she asks, gesturing with the book. Xie bites his lip. I think the silkworm is supposed to be the, um, the soul, he says. She blinks. The worm is the soul? The, um, the old soul, I think. The one you have before you meet God. She rubs her face with both hands, pale brows wrinkling beneath her fingers. Are you sure you don’t want to just continue with the algebra? Xie opens his mouth. She nudges his knee beneath the table. Just kidding. She keeps reading. He opens his own book, The Golden Legend; Saint Lucy has just torn out her eyes, in the same year when Pancratius lost his head. Light is beautiful to look upon; for it is the nature of light that all grace is in its appearance. Light radiates without being soiled; no matter how unclean may be the places where its beams penetrate, it is still clean. What about the places it doesn’t penetrate, he thinks; inside a body, a mind.