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The hoot came again, and Harry felt it settle into his chest and fill his heart. A child of the suburbs, he had never been so close to such wildness and had not known it would stir such feeling in him. He would have called it happiness if someone had asked him. But there was nobody to do so. Harry walked the trail to a small
He would have cried, but he had already done that for months and it hadn’t helped.
She’d worked with men to whom bullying was a standard management style. Testosterone poisoning,
no one had to know that Alice Holtzman was made of a million tiny broken pieces held together by cookies, solitary driving, and the sheer determination not to go crazy in public.
He wondered why none of the beekeeping books talked about this musical droning, this golden anthem, this song. It seemed so significant to him.
Her biggest dreams had disappeared just as she’d become aware of their existence.
Too nice. Too nice to say no. Her face flushed with shame. No, too afraid to say no. Afraid to stand up for herself and speak her mind. Afraid of being herself.
His reference point for the accident had been “before.” Now there was “after.” His after was the farm. His after was the bees. His after was helping his new friend Alice bear her terrible sorrow simply because he could.
Sorrow released a person from common constraints, and in their grief they could be their true, bald selves. If others chose to witness that, to truly see others, well, it changed everything.
“People here think global warming is a hoax made up by Portland yuppies who want to turn the interstate into a giant bike lane and dismantle capitalism in favor of socialist communes and replant all the wheat farms with marijuana.”
In the scrum, she looked out and saw Amri, the young woman with the green eyes and dark hair, swing her skateboard and bring it down on the shoulders of a man twice her size, and Alice laughed crazily.
