I throw myself into work. Not the work of wheeling and dealing, or acquisitions. There’s no joy in the hunt, or in the conquering. Not anymore. I need backbreaking labor. Hard physical work that callouses my hands and drives all thought from my head except the pain of cramped, exhausted muscles.
“Wanna talk about it?” Nico asks wryly as I turn a compost pile by hand.
“Nope.”
“I’ve been there, you know.”
I throw down the pitchfork, ready to lay into him, ready to blast him with the accusation that my pain is more unique, and therefore better, than his. But the fight’s gone from me. “Yeah. I know.” I pick up the fork and start again. And tell him about Emmaline. It’s uncomfortable at first, but after a while, as I lose myself in the rhythm of forking, turning, tossing, they just become w
