I walk slowly and lay on the couch for too long plotting, re-plotting all the moving details. This much money, that email about the one job--waiting, cutting up the strawberries, too tired to pick a show on Hulu, tired. It's one-hundred all the time and I have no mode of transit. Bike--sold. Scooter--sold. I expected to cry when she was wheeled into that stranger's garage, but I didn't. There has been too much to do. I have been so slow in doing it.