My sister didn't answer when I called upstairs this afternoon, and within a minute I had gone from wondering whether she was asleep to imagining something much worse. She was outside talking to a neighbor, without her phone, perfectly entitled to enjoy herself. I felt relieved and then rather cross, which was unfair and fortunately stayed inside my mouth. Since she moved upstairs, hearing her about the place has become part of what makes home feel right. I hadn't noticed how much I rely on it. We shared soup later and I told her I'd worried. She said she would try to take her phone, then asked whether I always took mine. Not always, no.

The lake path was damp when I came off shift, and I almost took the shorter way home because my feet had already had a long night. Once I got moving without a cart or a machine setting the pace, walking felt surprisingly good. There is a difference between standing tired and walking tired that I can never explain until I'm doing it. I slowed down near the water and let my arms swing instead of keeping them tucked close the way I do at work. My shoulder was still stiff when I reached the duplex, but the rest of me felt ready for bed rather than simply worn out. Postmark required breakfast first, naturally.

The historical society has asked again about a talk on the difficult addresses I've helped decipher. I keep planning the most interesting cases and then worrying about what belongs to the people who sent those letters, not to me. A handwriting puzzle can be shown without turning someone's private trouble into entertainment. That gives me a place to begin: invented addresses, real examples of how a loop can look like two different letters, no personal correspondence on a screen. I'm more comfortable arranging that than imagining the audience. I replied to ask how long they had in mind. It is not quite a yes, but I have at least stopped answering the invitation only in my head.