So at first—numb and sad and scared—I followed her lead. She offered me a spot on her small, uncomfortable couch; I took it. The catering company where she worked at night needed more servers; I signed up. She needed to go to auditions; I rode the subway with her, helping her carry extra clothes and waiting in hallways and lobbies while she anxiously read sides. She made plans with the friends she’d met since her arrival; I tagged along.

When I was ready, though—when I finally went out on my own—it was signs and letters that taught me how to love the city for myself.

To make it my new home.

So maybe that’s why, after my awful, stomach-churning conversation with Sibby, I take the extra-long way to the shop, so extra-long that it’s not really the way at all. It’s just a big, zigzaggy detour that kills time before I really have to be there for the shift that doesn’t start for another hour and that lets me see more of what I want to see: letters making sense.

There’s not much at first, or at least not much most people would notice. The signs on my street are about how to function in a space, reminders of how to be a resident: . They’re mostly all caps, mostly sans serif, sizes varying depending on the seriousness of the problem you’ll have if you don’t pay attention to them. Then west toward Fifth, a left to take me past where I sat with Reid Sutherland last night, more of his words ringing in my ears.

There haven’t been many signs for me here.

I go down Union, where it’s all about to change, where it’s not so much about functioning in a space as it is about figuring out what to visit or eat or buy once you’re in it. There’s a red awning marking out a restaurant known for using almost all local ingredients; their sign looks carelessly, charmingly handwritten, a heavy, uneven tittle over an i, an all-lowercase web address that looks scribbled out as an afterthought, a messy accommodation to modernity. Union and Sixth, a good corner for signage—a veterinary clinic with a slim sans serif, clean and safe-looking. A market with a lime-green star to replace the A, a standout against the black background—it’s hip, it’s expensive, it’s probably got a bunch of food you’ve never heard of but you’d definitely be hip, too, if you tried it.