“It’s not comedy,” I insist. “I think I might want to do the internship and then do culinary school and see which feels more right.”

“Culinary school?” Jamie wiggles around like a rabid worm, hanging over the edge again. “Sier! Look at you figuring shit out. I was going to suggest that option fifty years ago, but it seems so obvious, I thought you had already nixed it.”

“I don’t know if I’d ever want to run a kitchen. That feels … daunting, it’s too loud, but maybe something in food science or something?”

“Food science! You are so cool.”

“Not as cool as you.”

“You’re right. I’m pretty fucking awesome.”

I smack her bed with my hand. “What are you doing about your future?” I challenge.

“I’m gonna do that thing successful people do—get up and try the hell again.”

“What’s that mean?” I smile.

“I’m grooming a new set.”

“Is it about me?” I squeak.

“It’s about you and all of us.”

Excitement buzzes through me. “Can I hear it?’

“Right now, it’s a rough draft. It needs to be edited.”

“When can I hear it?”

“I signed up for open mic night at QCZ next Saturday, so I have a hot second to pull shit together. And if it goes well, I might sign up for as many open mic slots as I can find in the New York City places.”

I sit up to a kneeling position so I can lean against the bed and push her shoulder. “Jamie! You’re doing a gig with a new set and I’m invited? I’m so coming!”

She turns away to face the other side of the bed. “Okay, pipe down, you’re welcome. Good night.”

When it sounds like Jamie has fallen asleep, I duck into my sleeping bag with my phone flashlight and open the folded square. It’s a ripped page from the Rediscover Yourself journal.