Luke, a co-worker of mine from nearly ten years ago (going from farm to farm, he is a lot of people’s old co-worker), is hired on as a delivery driver to bring our vegetables down to the New York City market. He looks the same now when he comes into the trailer during dinner as when we first worked together. He remains short and brown-blond-haired with a mustache over his upper lip, a tongue piercing, a necklace tucked beneath a white T-shirt, and cargo shorts. We worked on a farm that grew so many carrots we’d spend most of October and November picking, topping, washing, and sorting them. After work at the bar or in our beds, we could close our eyes and still see orange shapes on the sorting table, moving down the incline.