There’s an untouched joint sitting in the middle of the road on the way back from the meeting, and Colleen scoops it up, untwists it, runs her fingers through the weed. It’s well-made, no seeds, no stems, tightly rolled and pleasingly tapered. An observation bubbles up from deep in her memory, the sort of emotional shading that she’s long out of the habit of noting: this was made with care. She opens her hand, lets the wind take what remains.

It’s a blistering warm October day, and she steams slightly in the evening air. The meeting had been sparsely attended, two baristas, a teamster, three booksellers, a couple of retail workers, the normal reports on deeds done, actions taken, monies spent. It’s her third meeting this week alone; she’s the recording secretary for five unions, three volunteer committees, seven arts commissions, and fourteen church groups. Everyone needs someone to record names and tally votes, and she’s grown sleek and smug on minutes, motions, seconds, debates. The coffee is universally bad.

She crosses the street against the light, staring down drivers, daring them to hit her. They won’t—each of them blinks and turns their eyes away, uncomfortable as coyotes in a spotlight. She files their faces away, their license plates, the models of their cars, all grist for the mill.