It’s a thirty minute drive to Norwich, where I did a one-month internship at King Arthur Flour after culinary school. I’ll get there by eight a.m., when they take their first break. My old boss is still listed on the website. I’ll dazzle him with my recent experience, and he’ll offer me a job on the spot.

And if that doesn’t work, I’ll cruise by every bakery in Vermont. Something will work.

* * *

Two hours later, I leave the fancy new King Arthur facility feeling discouraged. Gone is the cozy, undersized kitchen where I learned to bake sourdough. The new gleaming commercial space was as unfamiliar as the faces in it. My former boss has moved into management and works in a different building now.

“I’ll give you a great recommendation, Rod,” he’d said when I called the number they’d given me at the new bake shop. “Go ahead and fill out an application. But I know the baker gets several applications each week.”

“Great, I’ll do that,” I’d said, my heart sinking.

“Come back next month if you’re still looking. They always need seasonal help in the retail store.”

“Will do. Thanks.” I’d filled that application out, which took five minutes.

But now I climb back into my car again and crank the engine. I have never felt so untethered from the world as I do right now. I have no address. No job. And no real friends, either, because they’re all coworkers at the job I left behind in Tennessee, or—worse—pals of Brian’s.

The scary truth is that if I disappeared from this earth today, nobody would notice, or come looking for me.

Also, I need coffee. Nobody should be expected to solve his not-quite-midlife crisis while under-caffeinated, right?

So I point my car back toward Colebury. Chin up, I coach myself. I can’t expect my problems to be solved within the first hour of job hunting. I’m the kind of guy who always has to hustle for everything he gets. King Arthur is the biggest bakery in the area, but it’s not the only one that could hire me.

I hope.

It’s still midmorning when I reach the Busy Bean. When I step out of my car, I smell good coffee brewing. The scent of a strong brew on the piney Vermont air is like a siren’s song to me. I approach the door, already filling up with hope. Come on, Vermont. Give me something to believe in.

The first thing I notice is the acoustic guitar music humming off the wide-plank floorboards. The scent of coffee is stronger, too. And the place is adorable. It’s full of mismatched furniture upholstered in dark colors and animal prints. There are snarky sayings chalked onto the ceiling’s wide support beams. One verse in particular catches my eye:

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I love my coffee

And if you talk to me before I drink it I will cut you