Wilk informed me that it was a strange day: a friend had died the day before and she was grieving. As she gradually became less blurry, I saw that she was surrounded by her houseplants. They had been infected with a kind of fungus from the incessant heat of recent weeks and she had moved them outside. I felt terrible for thinking it, but all of this was too perfect—scripted, almost, as though right out of her novel. But that’s life, I guess.
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