Sometimes, looking out the window at passing trees pushes the boundaries of anxiety. The little one in the backseat senses this as I open the moonroof.

“Those aren’t the good trees.”

You’re right, dear, those are not the good trees.

I don’t remember when we last saw the good ones.

Kristie Macris writes occasionally as she splits her time between Seattle and Nice. Very strong NDAs keep her from admitting to anything she wrote before she mostly retired.