I’m outside the automated door, arms filled to the brims, time nipping at my heels. Mary June sees me as she often does, rides up in her motorized scooter to push the door button for me. The sight of her reminds me of the wonder of people. Her threadbare shirts, missing teeth, these things do not diminish her zest to love, to help, to console those around her. She doesn’t seem to know that somehow things have changed now, that her world may be bent more so by callous leaders who mock the handicapped, the poor, the less privileged. Mary June seems oblivious of people who throw their right arms into the air, hate seeping from the pores of their skin. “How you doin’?” she asks me as she adjusts the front of her red ball cap. I smile and tell I’m fine, tell her the day is glorious outside, that the sunshine awaits her beyond the door, and that the daisy bushes are still in bloom.