She had been expecting someone like me. Someone with a notebook and a reputation. She had been expecting, I think, to be understood. Finally. Correctly.

One hand resting on the window, touching it the way you touch something you made.

She showed me the tree.

“The air in this cabin,” she said, “is being filtered by something that is also growing food.”

She talked about her grandmother. A house on a Greek island. Stone floors. Ate what was on the island. Never thought about her footprint because the footprint was just life.

“That has to count for something,” she said.

I looked at the tree. I looked at the water. I looked at her hand still resting on the glass.

I thought about the reef.