low wall and talked about ordinary ambitions.
Sabrina was twenty-six. She shared an apartment with a roommate and had been saving for a place of her own. Nothing extravagant: a decent kitchen, enough daylight for plants, room for a table she would not have to clear whenever someone wanted dinner.
“And shelves,” I said.
“Obviously.”
“For the earthquake survivors.”
“For my growing body of work.”
I told her about my apartment, which she correctly imagined as practical furniture and too many books. She asked what I loved about teaching, and
