A lozenge, a smoke, advice about my skirts and sons—people offer me things. Condolences. Leaflets: I shake my head, and still a man shoves one in my hand. Somehow he knows that at the moment of truth, when he lets go, I will not, that I will not let him make me an accessory to litter. With little children, it’s crackers, sampled and damp; with dogs, it’s rabbits; and with neighbors, the tardy surplus from zucchini vines. I have yet to parse how much of it is munificence: the eagerness of givers, my reluctance to say no.