It felt crisp and tangy against her skin, like an early-morning swim. After decades of living in New York, where she’d grown accustomed to inhaling exhaust from belching taxis and the aggressive odors of street vendor carts, she couldn’t get over what it felt like to really breathe. “Is that our exit?” she asked Peter, pointing to a sign. “Yep.” He put on his blinker and began to edge his Honda over to the right. She stole a glimpse of his pale, blond profile, admiring the way he drove so steadily, keeping the needle at a constant fifty-five miles per hour. She’d been worried about asking him to take her to a FedEx drop box. He’d already helped her so much! But Peter had been the one to approach her this morning as she’d folded a load of laundry. “Got a minute?” he’d asked. As if she had anything but time, she’d thought, but she’d only nodded.
