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Her older daughter was doing clinical training in music therapy at the University of Minnesota, and her younger daughter worked in a Bolivian medical clinic. Her husband was at a three-day symposium on team building in Los Altos. In other words, she had time, which was good, since she was behind on letters of recommendation, on personal reading, on professional reading, on two sets of American Civil Rights Movement quizzes that needed grades and a set of Jim Crow Era essays that needed comments, on the adult literacy curriculum she was putting together for a non-profit, on thank you notes, and on research for a book she’d long wanted to write on wage discrimination against women. And—as always—behind on exercise. What came first? She had perfectly good reasons to procrastinate on the exercise, to stay home, feet up, with her couch as her work station, and phone, text, e-mail, draft, scribble, record, and put entries in her plan book, all the while a little gloomily aware that she hadn’t walked since Wednesday, that it was now Sunday, that today it was essential, even mandatory, to walk—this sort of troubled thinking about exercise lay under her other thoughts until, late in the afternoon, at the last practical hour really—in January it was dark by five—she finally got up from the couch.

She went out wearing the hat she’d just finished knitting and the new winter boots she felt dubious about. Were they going to break in or should she return them? They were warm enough but their toe boxes felt tight. In these uncomfortable boots, then, she walked to the park, where the trees were all leafless and, because of the cold, no people were present. What was the temperature? Fifteen? Twenty? She took the gravel path toward the frozen pond, crossed, gingerly, the icy footbridge, and power-walked beside the synthetic turf soccer field, where no nets were up, and where the lines regulating the game were blurred and frosted over. All still, all silent, but then, as she passed the concession stand—closed for the winter—a car turned into the rec-area parking lot at the far end of the field. Whoever it was, he or she didn’t get out right away. The motor went on running—rising, white exhaust. Finally a guy emerged and, standing beside his door, waved in the manner of someone who knew her, of someone friendly and familiar. Who was it, waving like that—waving with so much odd enthusiasm? She couldn’t tell from her distance. She could see that he wore a lime-green parka and—she thought—a stocking cap. He was well bundled up, that much was obvious. She was terrible with cars, all she could say about his was that it was small, one of those blunt and truncated looking gas savers, boxy and dark blue, beside which the waving guy looked, maybe, taller than he was as he hailed her in his animated way, his right hand waggling at the end of his wrist and raised to about eye level. Was this somebody she knew? An acquaintance of some kind? She pulled one hand from her pocket and, as he’d done, raised it to eye level, like someone taking an oath, or like a student uncertain of the answer she’s about to make, and waved back in her way, no waggling, measured, all her probity intact—not that she had more probity than the next person—and her enthusiasm checked, just in case. Because, after all, she didn’t want to issue an invitation—come on, take a walk, let’s chat, we’re friends—that wasn’t her intention. But what was her intention? Her intention was unclear, she didn’t know what she meant to say with her stiff and reserved wave, I’m receptive but I’m not receptive, thank you but no thank you. Certainly, she felt, she should at the very least do nothing offensive; to leave his wave unacknowledged was maybe a mistake or a danger. What’s wrong?, he...