I wanted to make fresh-squeezed orange juice for my former neighbor from Austin, who now lived in Milwaukee and was visiting with her two kids after her husband had died from pancreatic cancer. A kind man and father who’d played accordion in beer gardens on weekends was dead. Fresh-squeezed, backyard orange juice was going to be my expression of sympathy for his widow and her preteen son and daughter. Then something went wrong. I got out the ladder, but I didn’t pick any oranges. Did I get a cramp and become unable to climb? I don’t remember. I do know I was pretty depressed when my old neighbor and her kids came to visit. My own dad had just died. My daughters had left for college. My high-school students did not love me. Making fresh orange juice was going to be that thing where you do a good deed for someone who’s feeling even worse than you, partly to help that person feel better, but just as much or even more to make yourself feel better.