On an unsea­son­ably warm Feb­ru­ary after­noon, fol­low­ing weeks of relent­less win­ter cold, Chap­ter 15 of Rod­dy Harris’s sto­ry unfolds as he steps out­side with a qui­et sense of pur­pose. His Sub­aru wag­on is coat­ed in a thick lay­er of salt from the harsh Jan­u­ary weath­er, and he knows that if he doesn’t wash it soon, the cor­ro­sive residue will start eat­ing away at the met­al. His wife, Em, has already voiced her con­cerns about his arthri­tis flar­ing up, but Rod­dy dis­miss­es them with a famil­iar stubbornness—this is his rit­u­al, a small but nec­es­sary act of main­te­nance in a world that often feels like it’s falling apart.

The mild breeze car­ries the scent of damp earth as Rod­dy pulls the hose from its win­ter stor­age, prepar­ing to begin, when he notices a young woman approach­ing from the side­walk. Dressed in a strik­ing red coat that stands out against the dull gray of melt­ing snow, Bar­bara Robin­son clutch­es a slim fold­er to her chest. Her pres­ence piques his curios­i­ty, and when she inquires about Em with care­ful polite­ness, he quick­ly sur­mis­es that she is here about the Writer’s Workshop—a pro­gram Em had once cham­pi­oned but that now hangs in lim­bo.

Barbara’s pos­ture is one of cau­tious deter­mi­na­tion, as if she is brac­ing her­self for poten­tial dis­ap­point­ment yet unwill­ing to aban­don hope. She speaks with qui­et enthu­si­asm, explain­ing her admi­ra­tion for the pro­gram and her desire to improve her craft, her words tinged with the kind of urgency that only young writ­ers pos­sess. Rod­dy lis­tens, nod­ding along, rec­og­niz­ing the ambi­tion in her voice, the same dri­ve he has seen in many before her—some des­tined for lit­er­ary great­ness, oth­ers even­tu­al­ly resigned to the slow ero­sion of their artis­tic dreams.

He knows, how­ev­er, that Em will be the one to deliv­er the dif­fi­cult news. The Writer’s Work­shop, once a vibrant space for lit­er­ary minds, has been tee­ter­ing on the edge of dis­so­lu­tion ever since Jim Shepard’s pass­ing. The faculty’s tran­si­tion to remote learn­ing had been met with resis­tance, with many pro­fes­sors com­par­ing the expe­ri­ence to “mak­ing love while wear­ing box­ing gloves,” a crude but apt anal­o­gy offered by Hen­ry Strat­ton, the department’s cur­rent writer-in-res­i­dence. Some, like Em, had tried to keep the pro­gram afloat, but inter­est had waned, and admin­is­tra­tive sup­port had dwin­dled to a trick­le.

Rod­dy glances at Bar­bara, sens­ing that she is not the type to give up eas­i­ly. There is some­thing in the way she car­ries herself—determined, per­haps a lit­tle defiant—that reminds him of the young writ­ers who had once flocked to the pro­gram in its prime. He won­ders if she is chas­ing the lega­cy of lit­er­ary icons like Toni Mor­ri­son or Alice Walk­er, or if she is still in the process of dis­cov­er­ing what kind of writer she tru­ly wants to be. Regard­less, he respects her ini­tia­tive, even as he pre­pares to let Em han­dle the details of the sit­u­a­tion.

As they stand there, the sound of melt­ing snow drip­ping from the eaves punc­tu­ates the silence between them. Rod­dy con­sid­ers telling Bar­bara what he real­ly thinks—that writ­ing, at its core, is a soli­tary endeav­or, one that per­sists regard­less of work­shops or aca­d­e­m­ic insti­tu­tions. But he holds back, know­ing that some lessons must be learned through expe­ri­ence. Instead, he offers her a few words of encour­age­ment, hop­ing that, even if the work­shop falls apart, she will find a way to carve out her own space in the lit­er­ary world.

With their con­ver­sa­tion near­ing its end, Rod­dy turns back to his car, the hose in his hand feel­ing heav­ier than before. The act of wash­ing away winter’s grime sud­den­ly seems sym­bol­ic, a reminder of how peo­ple, like cars, require main­te­nance and care to with­stand the pas­sage of time. As Bar­bara walks away, her red coat flick­er­ing like a flame against the back­drop of the fad­ing after­noon, Rod­dy watch­es her go, remind­ed that ambi­tion, like the chang­ing sea­sons, always finds a way to endure—even in the face of uncer­tain­ty.