She studied me for a long moment.
“You want to earn decent money?”
I hesitated automatically.
“Doing what?”
She unlocked her gate and waved me forward impatiently.
“Come inside. I’ll explain over tea.”
Her tea tasted like boiled grass clippings and regret, but she drank it proudly while sitting across from me at her tiny kitchen table.
Then, without warning, she said:
“I’m dying.”
I nearly inhaled hot tea into my lungs.
She rolled her eyes immediately.
“Oh, stop looking horrified. I’m eighty-five, not immortal.”
I coughed violently while she continued.
“The doctors say maybe a few years. Maybe less. Arthritis is getting worse. Driving hurts. Carrying groceries hurts. Existing hurts. I need help.”
“With what exactly?”
“Everything annoying.”
