I woke up on a hospital gurney three days after Christmas. This was 2018: I was younger (a given) and dumber (another given). I had worn a black dress and heavy eye makeup to go out the night before. Now, that eye makeup was horrifically smudged, and the state of my face suggested that I’d taken a narrow strip of sandpaper to it. I came to slowly, with a growing awareness of the heaviness of my limbs, in a ward full of people older and sicker than I was. Eyes open, I didn’t move for the next hour or so. I wanted to fade back into oblivion. I knew full well what I, in my lightly blood-spattered black dress, looked like to the elderly man with the fractured arm in the bed next to me.

“Oh, my God, that’s a Rembrandt!” my mom half-shouted, waving her hand close enough to the portrait of Nicolaes Ruts to get a stern look from museum security. “I love Rembrandt.”

If I’m going to order a Lyft in this city, I better have a damn good excuse, because my conscience is a tough crowd. “Really, asshole?” I’ll challenge myself. Maybe it’s a steamy August day, and I’m due across town. “You’re not willing to stand on a bus for, like, an hour? You think you’re too good for the MTA? Maybe you’re not up for New York. Maybe some place like Boston is more your speed.”

As I sat in my hot car on a sunny morning, eager to surprise my boyfriend with homemade cinnamon rolls, I had no idea that he had a much grimmer surprise for me.

Summer in globally-warmed New York City is the cruelest of seasons. The 90-degree sun melts the skyline to a sooty mirage, and the air curdles. A merciless landscape for a curly-haired 18-year-old prone to fainting in the heat. Even the gum-scarred sidewalks sweat. In the past, I had escaped to the verdant hills of the Adirondacks to study violin. But music costs money until you’re trained, lucky, and brave enough to make your own. This summer, it was time to get a job and save for college expenses, and practicing in my room wasn’t going to cover the cost of my Lit Hum books.

Sometimes, jostled by the 1 train, I miss driving. Colorado is a wide and open land; jagged, regal mountains spill into yellow plains under the expansive sky. Interstate 70 scrapes the side of Denver and curves westward to become a heavily trafficked, occasionally perilous mountain corridor. Its long tunnels, steep grades, and packs of long-haul trucks make me break out in hives, particularly in rain or snow.

I’m sitting on the couch in the living room next to my older sister. We just met. Her name is Anna. We study each other’s fingers, which are skinny and long, with rounded tops. After a pause, we ask each other about food allergies and lactose intolerance. We’ll ask each other about shared feelings, but that’s later. She asks me if I like purses. She tells me that she has a collection. I’m not much of a purse person. She’s not into wide-leg pants.

It’s early June, and the clocks are striking 13. These past two weeks have been blissful, dusky, and honey-soaked. Saccharine, whatever that means. And I reckon I’ve got about three more days before the panic truly sets in. You see, I don’t have gainful employment lined up for this summer. Cue much wailing and gnashing of teeth.