When I arrived home yesterday, there was a basket outside my apartment door. Inside was a barely legible, handwritten card: “Champers for my Champ! You’re money, baby!—Clifford.” The rest of the basket was empty. Someone stole my champagne.

That about sums up my view of Manhattan. Everything’s there for the taking, and it’s been taken by someone else.

I roll across my lumpy couch bed and land in “the kitchen,” aka the area where the hot plate and mini-fridge are. Another piece of advice from the neighbor I’ve only seen once: “Use your oven to store your winter coats.” (Without a closet or cooking skills, that made pretty good sense to me. Unfortunately, I’m sans oven. Instead, I hang my sweaters in the empty pantry.)

Out the window, the city is dark and unfriendly. The noise of a truck backing up—beep, beep, beep—fills the air. Is there a single quiet hour here? Ever? I make a deeply ironic cup of coffee so I can wake up enough to sit outside Café Crudité and insure I’m the first customer to arrive and purchase more coffee. Then I plop down cross-legged in front of the lopsided mirror hanging on the door and scrutinize my face. I looked like a human Xanax withdrawal yesterday, blinking into the light, but today that won’t do. It’s not enough to beat the Table Thief; I want to look good doing it (but not as though I’m trying to look good). I dab on tinted moisturizer, a swipe of eyeliner, and a muted lip. I’ll still wear my stomping boots and the arm warmers Mary knitted because I refuse to be miserable in an overly air-conditioned building, but other than that, I’m less Manic Pixie Nightmare and more “Oh, did I put on makeup?” I smile at my reflection, pleased with the results.

Outside on the darkened sidewalk, I’m flooded with adrenaline. There aren’t many people out, which is nice, but on the other hand, there aren’t many people out, so if something happens to me, or I need help in any way, there will be no one to hear my cries.

Boots, start walking. Fast.

I make it across the crosswalk on my second try. Progress. Then, at precisely 5:01, Evelynn strides toward the café entrance to unlock the door and jumps when she sees me.

“Hi! Sorry. Hi. I guess I’m the first one here today, ha ha ha. Am I the first one here?” I sputter.

“Yes,” she says. “Can you stand back while I . . .”

“I’m curious, is the biscotti already sitting there waiting for me? Or do you have to bring it out and display it?”

“We discontinued that policy after the events of yesterday.”

My mouth falls open. “Are you serious?”

“No.” She motions with her hand. “Can you give me a little space?”