All of it fit Abby’s mood as she pedaled along, each mile passing more slowly than the one before. She was ashamed of herself for how short she’d been with Sebastian; how unprofessional. And then, after she’d sent him away, Mark had called. Instead of answering, Abby had let the call go to voicemail. Her thoughts were an angry churn, and even though she knew she hadn’t done anything wrong, she felt ashamed.
Eileen rode beside her for a while, shooting curious looks in her direction when she thought Abby didn’t notice. “Windy,” she observed.
“Not like Peloton, right?” Abby asked. She prepared for her mother to take offense, but Eileen just nodded.
“No wind, no flats, no kids on hoverboards. Just Britney Spears songs, and instructors telling you to pedal harder.”
“Are you doing all right?” Abby asked.
“I’m fine!” Eileen said, her tone excessively bright and cheerful. Abby wondered how much she’d picked up on what was going on with Sebastian, or whether she’d start reminding Abby about her as-yet-unsettled future, or casually asking if she’d made any decisions about renewing her lease. But Eileen, blessedly, kept quiet.
As she rode Abby was remembering how it had felt when she’d reunited with Mark, and how she’d thought that relationship would spell an end to all the questions that had plagued her since she’d left college… and that it had. Until it hadn’t.
She’d been working that week as a counselor for a camp run by her friend Gabriella, who was a librarian in Kensington, right in the middle of Philadelphia’s most notorious open-air drug market. Gabi spent her days planning programming, helping patrons with their tax forms or their job hunts or their Internet searches. She’d check out books, read stories to little kids, monitor the public computer terminals, and, occasionally, barge into the bathrooms or race to the park across the street to revive someone who’d overdosed on heroin or fentanyl. The Philadelphia Inquirer had done a story about the heroic librarians of Kensington, who’d become as proficient with Narcan as they were with the Dewey decimal system. Inevitably, a GoFundMe had been set up and donations had arrived, along with volunteers who came to the park each morning to remove needles from the dirt and the grass, and to direct drug users to local soup kitchens, counseling centers, and needle exchanges.
Gabi had used some of the money to launch Camp Kensington, so that kids who lived in the neighborhood would have something to do during vacations when school wasn’t in session. She’d recruited friends, including Abby, to work as counselors, and put out the call to a local hospital asking for doctors and dentists and nurses to volunteer.
Over spring break, at the end of March, Abby had been assigned to the littlest kids. That afternoon, it had been warm enough to be outside. Abby had set up a table in the park and been helping her campers twist colorful yarn around Popsicle sticks to make pendants, when she’d noticed the fourth-grade counselor shepherding a trio of girls across the street.
“We’re going to see the doctor,” the counselor said, giving Abby a wink. Twenty minutes later, Abby had seen the sixth-grade counselor making the same trek. “Troy is having an asthma attack,” the counselor said. This appeared to be news to Troy, whose inhaler was still in his back pocket, but they were across the street and gone before Abby could ask any questions. Then, less than an hour later, she’d seen the fourth-grade counselor going back with a new group of kids.
At lunchtime, Abby cornered her friend to ask what was happening.
“Go take a look at the doctor,” Gabi had said, smirking. “Then you’ll understand.”
Abby waited until the day was over before drifting over to the library, where she found herself stuck by the checkout desk, at the end of a line. She’d almost gone home. But the library was cozy, and she’d ridden her bike to work, which meant she didn’t need to worry about catching the subway or a bus. So she’d refilled her water bottle and waited, bemused, outside of Gabi’s office, until she was close enough to see a young man crouched down in front of a girl while the girl’s mother stood by.
From her spot by the door, Abby couldn’t see more than dark hair, a white coat, a masked face, and a trim body, neatly dressed. She appreciated both the consideration of the doctor getting himself to a six-year-old’s eye level, and the quad strength required to maintain the position.
“Does it hurt when I do this?” the man asked, cupping the girl’s elbow in his hand as he turned her arm to the left. His voice was a pleasant tenor, and something about him felt familiar, although Abby was sure she’d never seen him before.