“We drug test pretty regularly, and that’s also mandatory. They’re always done randomly, so you can’t fool us. We depend on one another to support our sobriety, so we have to be on top of this.” Jo leads me into a large dining room, with dark wood paneling and a pretty stained glass window. A rustic wooden table with mismatched chairs that seats at least twelve sits in the center. “We eat in here. We have group dinners a few times a week. I’ll show you the schedule later. We make the meal together, eat together, clean up. It’s really nice. The rest of the time, we all just do our own thing. But we often potluck it together. I’ve got a kick-ass curry on I’m gonna make you try. I call it Vicious Vegan Delight.”

I grin. “Sounds awesome.”

“We’ve got a cool garden out back. Gina will be thrilled to have you, if you like to do shit like that, which I don’t. She’s our resident green goddess.”

“I’d love it. My mom and I gardened together a lot. I miss it.”

I run my finger along the table, thinking. A dream’s been forming in my head for a while now, ever since I started working with Ben at Castaways. I don’t know if it was Mae’s idea, me working there, or his, but I’m grateful. A job—one step toward independence, toward real life. A life outside the pills.

After graduation, I started working the morning shifts with Ben, making the sandwiches and soups and stuff for the lunch crowd, along with regular barista duties. I write acorns on the sandwich board outside.

And I love it. All of it. I really do.

“I’ve been thinking…”

Jo glances at me, eyebrows up. “Uh-huh…”

“Cooking chills me out. It helps me think. My dad always said that my mom did soup meditation. Remember I told you that whenever we’re stressed or something happens, we make soup? Like, the night of the wave, Mae and I made chili. We weren’t hungry, we just … had to.” She nods. “I was thinking … I’m writing a lot now, but I need a job, too. I don’t want minimum-wage barista work forever. What if cooking’s one of my things? Like, how I contribute to the world? Food is healing. Making it, eating it. Growing it. I could maybe take some classes?”

Jo throws an arm around my shoulder. “Hell yes! I fucking love that idea. Mostly because I will directly benefit from whatever delicious shit you make.”

I laugh, and it sounds good, that music coming from my mouth.

We peek into the sizable kitchen and the backyard, thick with trees and flowers and a big garden—tomatoes crawling up vines, rows of herbs, bunches of greens.