When we walk outside we're mostly silent, snug in our separate shells. But at the café we talk for hours, about books and bedbug infestations, future road trips and finding a job.
Before I'm even out of my chair she's there, catching me up in a hug.
They ask me where I'll live, what I'll do. I tell them I don't know; I don't know yet. It's a dissatisfying answer that tempts people to jump in, answer for me and tell me what to do. I'm more appreciative of the responses I get from those who are open to a number of possibilities and willing to discuss them.
The boy is barely taller than the large black dog that walks beside him. The leash is held loosely in the boy's hand, but the dog doesn't drag him or pull free; even when the boy swats at him with a broad green leaf, the dog slowly and patiently plods along, accustomed to the young child's pestering.
Their Lego city has expanded to include a marina with pirates, mermaids and people on jet skis.
As the storm gusts around outside I'm reminded to check that I have enough non-perishable food. Opening a cupboard I find tuna cans and chocolate-covered blueberries. I'm set.
At the park we find a bench in the shade and catch up over lunch - pitas plump with hummous, tahini, hot sauce, falafels, and Israeli salad. It's a brilliant day. A breeze sweeps in around us, chasing away the stagnant heat. The leaves overhead are green and gold. At one point a toddler comes up to us, smiles, stares and waits to see what we'll do; his parents hang back, his mother a touch embarrassed and his father amused, both of them fondly tolerant of his need to investigate people.