There’s an end-of-season party at the orchard this Sunday. We’re expecting about 150 people. Part of me would rather not skip a day’s pay to attend. On the other hand, this is the first time I’ve been around late enough in the season to go, so I don’t want to miss the chance.

A friend asked if Peter was going to put me to work at the party.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

As soon as I said that aloud, I realized it probably wasn’t true.

He probably will. But what the hell else am I going to do? Socialize? Pick apples? I suppose I might get drunk enough to talk to strangers. I doubt I’ll get drunk enough to want to pick apples.