The restlessness was always a presence—not welcome exactly, though there was no use fighting or denying it. She simply needed to ride its recurring wave. Maybe it was best to be as invisible as possible, like a ghost or a stone, to make it through all the turmoil of having so much life but then having to sell it, day after day, for money. Except on weekends, of course, when grass became vivid again, and sometimes in May the lilacs by the gate to the alley in back were so startling, they made her hold still without even trying. And once, walking home near midnight after overtime at the office—and this time she walked on the well-lit street, not the shortcut in the alley—a fox crossed the street and walked the same direction for a while. If she had a choice, that would be the world she would stay in, grass, lilacs, fox. “Hello,” she answers the phone. “How can I help you?”