In the bathroom of a miniscule apartment in Manhattan, several women jostle each other for a place at the sink. We’re settling into our bunks before the yoga and writing retreat.

I have a recipe for a special tea. One of the ingredients is rosemary, but the letters spell out an unintelligible word. My friend, an herbalist, snatches the paper from my hand to read it, but I pull it away from her. “I can read,” I say.

In the cupboard I find a jar of herbs, crawling with worms. I throw it in the trash, where red snakes writhe.