The dead lilies at the door were the last straw. Dead cut flowers in a long green box with my name on it and a cheerful glossy paper enclosure describing the variety and how best to care for your beautiful flowers.

The universe poked a finger to my shoulder to see if I might topple; the flowers discovered right after a disturbing phone event seemed a dark gift. I was stunned and sad.

Then, I rebelled. I am not going to follow the script damn it. No matter if it has my name on it. Live on the sunny side of the street.

And just like that, the world shifted.

I put in my contacts, nearly dry from disuse, and ran in the lavender heat of dusk—the first run since early April. Rusty, but man I’m designed to run. I shot some baskets—the first 4 sank right into the net. Polished my résumé for the next contract project but gave serious thought to an improbable colorful scheme that could help others and keep me engaged and financially afloat.

Out of the box that had sat in 95-degree heat for at least 2 days, I pulled 3 limp stems. They hadn’t curled up dry and brown like the others. I trimmed them, placed them in water with ice cubes.

The lilies have lifted their heads, fragrant and open, offering stamen and pistil, miraculously revived.