Page 17 of 32 Days in May

“I know,” I say as soon as I pick up. “I’m late and you’re calling—” I pause to let out a painful, dry cough. “To fire me.”

“You’re fine, actually.” Soph sounds so fucking chipper, I have to hold the phone away from my head. “Farmers market starts in an hour. I’m here early, trying to get us a better spot, but the goat lotion people are fascists. Can you bring me the crate of chard I left in the driveway? Before Frank DiBiase gets to it.” Frank. Notorious little klepto.

I pull my phone away from my face and stare at the time on my lock screen. After way too long, it registers. I actually woke up early.

“Roger that,” I croak.

After we hang up, I spend ten minutes lying on the freezing-cold kitchen floor, sorting through all the various sensations coursing through my body, so copious they threaten to send me into a full meltdown.

Nausea. Okay, a lot of nausea. I really need to eat something.

Headache. Duh. But also, an extra-dull ache radiates from the back of my head. The wall. I cringe at the memory, then groan because even cringing hurts.

Shoulder throb. I’d flipped or fallen or maybe yeeted myself a great distance. I remember that much. Won’t be able to lift my right arm for a while, that’s for sure.

Feet. Destroyed. Wrecked. Useless.

Knees. Forget about it. Might as well have them removed.

With my inventory over, I crawl to the bathroom and run the hottest bath I can tolerate. I have exactly forty minutes to undo hours of damage.

With my car nowhere in sight, I’m forced to bike to work. It is very hard to maintain your balance when you’re pedaling approximately twice per minute.

The vibrancy of my sunny-yellow bike makes me feel like my eyes are being etched with a diamond-tipped drill. The real sun is also an absolute assault. With every tire rotation, I whimper. Two blocks in, I lie down on a public bench.

There’s fight, flight, and whatever the fuck this is.

“Your chard, my liege,” I announce with all the fanfare of a rotten apple as I drop the two overflowing bags of leafy greens onto the table where Soph has already set out cartons of perfectly ripe kiwis, meticulously cared for kale, and fragrant bundles of Italian parsley.

St. Agnes’s Friday morning farmers market brings out the best of Evergreen’s underemployed and retired weirdos. Jeanine Spellman, who picks her nose and then touches every single grape she sees. Steve Donoghue holding down his anti-circumcision booth, week after week, always with a fresh stack of pamphlets on deck. And Carla Catalina, who loves to just be . . . Carla Catalina.

Soph has one of the smaller booths—a tented table right next to the broad stone steps that lead to the church’s lacquered oak double doors, directly across from where the food trucks park. The new sign I painted leans up against the table accompanied by the sandwich board I’ve taken to scrawling with a recipe featuring whatever produce we have an overabundance of.

Last Friday, I shared my sacred tomato jam recipe. Darlene Colli made it for the VA potluck and left with four different phone numbers.

Today, the board is empty save for a few pathetic ovals that—I think—are supposed to be zucchini. My first and only clue being that Soph has half-heartedly scribbled Z u c c H i N I in a shaky script underneath.

“You’re a hero,” Soph declares, mopping their dewy, sunburnt brow with a gloved hand. Then, they pause to take me in—my oversize T-shirt, grubby Nikes, and the unbuckled bike helmet still on my head. “You biked here? Damn. Good job.”

“Yeah, well.” I limp my way over to my usual spot beside Soph. “Save my Purple Heart. I probably won’t make it through this shift.”

Soph laughs and hands me my apron and a pair of gloves. “Hey. Catalina, incoming. One o’clock.” Sure enough, there she is, trolling around the blond couple from Cape May who run an organic honey stand, undoubtedly grilling the lanky husband with questions like, Don’t ya knees hurt from standing so tall all the dang time?

“She’s on one today,” I observe, my voice coming out thick with exhaustion and about two octaves deeper than usual. “She’s going to say something about my hair.”

Carla’s coming toward us at full speed and we must prepare ourselves for imminent attack. The woman is absolutely tearing up the lawn with the front wheels of her walker.

“What happened, Car? Hurt your hip again?” I call out.

“Ugh, Nadia. Let me tell you something,” she begins. “When I moved here in 1965 . . .” Soph grabs my hand underneath the table. Yes, I think. Yes. More. More. This is why I get out of bed. “People actually frickin’ took care of their properties. Now? Cigarette butts, bicycles all over, chairs on their lawn. It was never like that before. These people are degenerates. You wanna sit outside? Don’t you have any chairs in your house?”

“Did you trip over someone’s lawn chair?”

“What?” She looks at me like I’m insane. “No, I broke a toe at aquagym.”

My mouth actually falls open.

“I have your favorite today. White peaches.” Soph swoops in, handing Carla a free sample.