She spent the morning reading Mrs. Dalloway, flinching at Rezia’s extreme solitude in a strange city with a strange language and Septimus Smith her only friend. For she had left the comfort of home, left Italy with a husband she hardly knew, a man who spoke to the unseen. And Diana felt Rezia’s fear, adrift in a shell-shocked world. Eighty-five years later British Petroleum stretched across the Gulf of Mexico, coating shrimp and brown pelicans in crude oil that gushed 30,000 barrels daily from a damaged well. How could Diana possibly go to a party and drown herself in small talk when the oil was killing sea turtles and their progeny? If Diana cared, why wasn’t she raking oil paddies on the Alabama beaches? Or clearing plastic and coke cans from Hendry’s beach next to her apartment? She wanted to improve the material and spiritual welfare of those around her. She believed activists like her friend Marcia saved us from our callous selves. Marcia organized Beach Angels who met on the sand every Sunday and swept away pounds of broken glass and metal. The nearest Diana came to removing potential toxins from the environment was when she slipped into latex-free gloves and a surgical mask to clean Rhoda’s litter box. Feeling her flushed face, Diana reached for the thermometer.