I thought I was prepared. Neil even had DEET, but I must have sprayed unevenly. Soon I sported red splotches like an ankle monitor telling me stay home and grieve. I scratched through the night, annoyed by death. I used cortisone cream on the outside, my own cortisol pumping inside as I thought of everything I needed to do besides feel sad. I broke my home confinement—groceries, new tires (I had a flat on the way home!), a doctor’s appointment, work, and meetings at work. It was easier to itch than cry.

What did that dead tire mean? No air to save it, even my spare donut flat. My legs prickled, and there was a big bite on my shoulder blade I needed a backscratcher to reach. I was stoic as we gathered and read the poems of my dear, dead friend. I was stoic and perhaps a little numb. I was unflappable with the AAA guy, holding my phone flashlight in the dark as he jacked up my car. He said I was unusually calm for a woman who’d broken down. The tire meant stop moving. The stinging began.