Willow felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She had been thinking about this all day, but it hadn't felt real until she told Amber. It was as though a door opened; a breeze blew around the back of her mind, and the light was brighter. She began to cry. "Hold that door," she said. "Hold the bottle--is what I'll hold," Amber said, squeezing her. They each knew that they had come to a fork in the road, and that the distance between them would inevitably broaden. They talked late into the night. Amber volunteered to reassure Willow's parents when she returned to California, and Willow promised to write letters from the wild world. Willow went to bed tired but feeling honest and sure of herself. "It's a new ball game, squirrelie," she said, turning her head toward the woods. In the morning, she waited anxiously for Patrick in the deli. She rehearsed various greetings, but when he came through the door she took one look and asked him what was the matter. "Gert is in the hospital." "Oh no, your nice landlady?" Patrick nodded. "Is it serious?" Patrick raised his arms and let out a breath. "Yes," he said. "I called her niece in St. Louis. She's coming today, I think. I need a sandwich. Maybe we could meet later?" "Sure. I'll be at the Depresso. If you don't show up, I'll figure you couldn't make it." "O.K." He looked relieved. She made him an enormous sandwich and wished that she could hug him, but another customer was waiting. This was the first time she had seen Patrick sad. His expression was calm, resigned, almost delicate. The energy she was accustomed to seeing in his face seemed to have drawn back, turned inward, as though it were trained on maintaining his balance. "I hope I see you later," she said. His answering smile included her in his balance, if that's what it was. She felt more certain than ever that she was moving in the right direction. On her way home, she stopped to talk with AhnRee who was seated in a director's chair on his lawn. He was sketching an apple tree. "Nice day, huh, AhnRee?" "Mmm, yes, Willow." "Pretty." She pointed at the drawing. "I thought you only painted women." AhnRee looked up from his labor. "One must take a break occasionally. It is good for the eye." He selected another colored pencil and rubbed a few darker patches into the ground beneath the tree. "Tone, Willow." "Yes, tone." Normally, she would have continued on her way at this point. Hell, normally, she would have waved and not stopped in the first place. AhnRee put down his pencil carefully. "And are you content here, Willow?" A bit surprising, sometimes, AhnRee. "I am," she said emphatically. "I love the flowers. It is a wonderful place." "Pour l'amour." AhnRee smiled. God, this blushing had to stop. "Right. L'amour," she said. "Patrick," she added. "Ah, Patrick . . . Is he the one with the red hair?" "Yes." "Marvelous," AhnRee said, looking back at the apple tree.