Jo tells me a bit about the others as she leads me to the second of the three floors. There are ten of us in all, including Jo, who’s the oldest at twenty-five. A few are students at one of the many universities and colleges in Boston; many are like me, just working and trying to figure things out.

“We’ve got a lot of artists here,” she says. “As you can see.”

The upstairs walls are covered in a collage-like mural: flowers and suns and moons. There are five bedrooms on this floor, and a communal bathroom.

“There’s a cleaning schedule, and you can sign up for your shower time if you need to be in there before work or something,” Jo says. “We’re strict about sign-ups and our commitments.”

“Is it insane, trying to get in there?”

“Each floor has two toilets and two showers. Usually something’s open if you need it.”

All of the bedroom doors are shut except for one. Jo knocks, then pokes her head in.

“Hey, V. Got our new sister here. Come say hi.”

My heart tightens at that word—sister. It’s only been six days since Mae got on a plane for Annapolis. But I miss her.

A girl maybe a year or two older than me comes out. Her whole head is covered in dreadlocks, and she has an elfin face that reminds me a little of Mae.

“I’m Hannah,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

“Valerie. You, too. So what’s your deal?”

“Um…” I have a choice. Do I define myself by my addiction—or by something else? “I’m a poet. And I cook.”

She grins. “Right on. I’m a painter. I did some of the stuff on the walls here. You should contribute to my zine. Like, a poem. I can make the art for it.”

My words, with my name next to them. Not anonymous. Not secret. I can almost feel the stardust Mae is always talking about, falling on me. It tingles a little. All over.

“Okay. Yeah.”

“Cool. Well, knock on my door any time you need something.”

“Thanks.”

Jo leads me across the hall, opens the last door on the left.

“And … here we are.”

Pale yellow walls.

Thick wood floors.

A wide window overlooking a side yard crawling with flowers and bicycles.

A polished teardrop crystal hangs from the window, catching sunbeams and turning them into rainbows all around the room.

“My little present to you,” Jo says, nodding at the crystal. A new kind of diamond.

The room is warm and cozy, big enough to roll out my yoga mat. I’ll put a desk by the window, my bed in that corner, by the large closet.

A gilded mirror on the wall, so I’ll remember I’m not invisible.

“Thank you, Jo. For everything.”