Kitty had gone from calling her mama once a week to every other day. Homesickness, that was all. But there was a reason she’d moved west. Louisville—for Kitty, at least—was a dreamless place. Going back, she would assume the role that had been scripted for her by the neighborhood she lived in, the name on her birth certificate, and the color of her skin. Her potential could be packed into a small box, whereas in L.A., there was no box.

“There was a tornado in Bullitt County the day before yesterday,” her mama said, sensing Kitty’s emotion and kindly steering the conversation elsewhere. “Twister touched down.”

“Yeah? Anybody hurt?”

“No, but Muncel Stevens says she saw that mean ol’ thing and ran like her ass was on fire.”

Kitty’s new life was large and intimidating, but it was hers to script, and whenever that felt like too much, she would remember the dreamlessness and the small box and, most importantly, the boy she had left behind.

Kitty told her mama that she loved her and ended the call, then sat on the floor and gave in to a moment of self-pity. Mama had asked if she was lonely. Kitty wasn’t, but she often felt alone, and there was a difference. She’d met a few people, of course. The neighbor directly below—Sophia—was ten years older, an ER nurse originally from Tennessee, and far too busy for anything more than an occasional coffee. There were a couple of women at Kitty’s yoga class that she had friendly conversations with, but again, their busy lives had prevented them from getting together socially.

Then there was Johan Fly. Kitty hadn’t seen him—or his Mustang—in the three weeks since their encounter, but he’d called her. She didn’t know how he got her number, but supposed he had no problem getting what he wanted.

“You’re still working for Sly Boy,” he’d noted. It was the first thing he said when she answered. “Hopping between garbage cans. My little raccoon.”

“I’m not your little anything,” Kitty responded, and then, as if she needed to explain herself: “It’s easy work. Good money.”

“You deserve better.”

“It’ll happen.”

But would it? For all its life and color, Los Angeles was still the City of Broken Dreams. Kitty had pondered this notion since Johan had introduced it, and found it helped to approach it from a different angle: that dreams—all dreams, not just hers—were broken on arrival, and that only those with the tenacity to rebuild, one tiny piece at a time, would achieve success. Her resolve would be tested, but she had to believe, to trust.

“I can do that,” Kitty whispered to herself.