Drew is driving me through Lake City at 11 pm. It used to be unincorporated, he says. North Seattle, the Wild West.

Lake City is the part of Seattle where I am going to work a grave at a housing program for young men who are being detained by ICE, so that they can have a semblance of normal life while they are essentially in jail. They have a school on-site, they have outings to parks and museums and gyms. It is a bizarre and charming neighborhood with a wide commercial strip running down the middle - run-down mechanics and mom-and-pop "Lamp and Shade" shops sandwiched between tarot readers and 1639813 Thai restaurants. On either side, it is practically the wilderness - steep hills and evergreens rising up 60, 70, 80 feet, unbridled views of the Cascades to the North. No sidewalks. Dead end streets popping out into fields.

Aylee's new house is also in Lake City, sunny and spacious with a wrap-around deck and a huge lawn for lying in, and I am there right now after crashing at 7:30 in the morning, being fed oatmeal with flaxseed oil and ginger tea.

When I go to sleep after a grave, I can only dream of work. And I can only sleep for four hours, no matter how tired I am.