The night before, Fiona had texted, ordering me to meet her at the boathouse at five thirty to row on the Charles. That wasn’t what pulled me out of bed, however. I enjoyed it, the process of more doing and less thinking. Bend the knees, reach back with the oars, dip the oars, push the legs, pull with the arms, propel yourself farther along the water. I loved the rhythm. Bend, reach, dip, push, and pull. It wasn’t often that I could escape thinking about what I said or did in public. In today’s world, the threat of appearing on Twitter, YouTube, Facebook, Instagram, Reddit, Snapchat, or any new type of social media was a constant threat. Living under a microscope was exhausting. I met Fiona outside the boathouse. She was bent over, stretching her arms behind her back. “How goes it with Maya the Gray?” she asked. I adopted the same stretching position and replied, “Progress has been made.” Fiona bent further.
