Going to live in a completely new place? That’s more than just changing some parts of a routine. It sounds like a nightmare. Anyway, it’s not an option. “I couldn’t do that to my babies,” I say, looking out. Maybelle and Molly are so petty, they would probably pee on my carpets for weeks if I left them with a dog sitter.

“Hm,” he says.

Sonder Hill’s main road reaches the I-91 with a sign that says Boston, 140.

“I was wondering about Boston,” I say while wringing my fingers in my lap.

“Huh?”

“If you actually lived there. You know, since that’s where we met.”

A short but thick silence falls between us.

“Right.” He clears his throat. “Yeah, I do.”

“So do you always work at the farm?” I can’t imagine he’d want to do that kind of commute every day, no matter how nice the city is.

He shakes his head vigorously. “No. Well, not before. I just came back to help out after my dad’s accident.”

“Oh.”

Accident. Funny, how we keep referring to the stroke as an accident. As if it’s easier to accept that it was a mistake rather than his body working against him. I’ve learned a while back that it’s much easier to refer to disease as something that is random. Not necessarily the truth, but easier.

A moment passes before I ask, “And what did you do before?”

I don’t know what’s making me ask all these questions. It must be the stress of my car situation. I’m usually comfortable in silence, and I’m definitely not known for being a talkative person, both with strangers and with the few people I do know. It’s like that summer night all over again.

“I’m a graphic designer for a video game company.”

“So you make the drawings that become the games?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Hm. Interesting.” I don’t think I’ve ever heard of someone actually doing that for a living.

He turns to me, then smiles. “Yeah, it is.” When he turns back to the road, his happy expression leaves. “I’m kinda sad about leaving it, if I’m being honest.”

I adjust my body so I’m angled in his direction. “Why do you have to quit?”

A long sigh leaves his mouth. “The farm’s been in my family for four generations. Dad can’t take care of it anymore, and my mom is overwhelmed with his health. I’ll keep it running, at least until Callie can take over, if she ever wants to.”

A frown takes over my face before I can help it. “Are you sure that’s what they’d want?” From the conversations I’ve had with Aaron’s parents, the last thing they currently have on their mind is the land.