The next morning, like she promised, Molly comes to my room at exactly 7:10 a.m. to take me to breakfast. The only problem is, I discovered way too late that I have no idea how to do up a real tie, and it’s not as easy to figure out using online tutorials as I thought it’d be. I got so focused on trying to work it out, in fact, I lost track of time altogether, so when Molly arrives, she finds me in my school shirt and pajama pants, with my tie choking my neck like a noose. By the time we finally leave my room at 7:16, I’m stammering “Thank you” and “Sorry” on repeat like they’re the only words I know. The one thing she asked me to do—be ready at 7:10—and I messed it up. Of course I did.

The breakfast line is outside now, snaking single file through the courtyard and up into the dining hall. By the time Molly and I join, we’re all the way back by the fountain, and I whisper “Sorry” a few more times, my cheeks red-hot.

“It’s really fine, I promise,” Molly says, and she’s convincing enough that I back away from the ledge a little. “I factored in extra time because it’s the first morning. We aren’t late.”

The line moves quickly, and it doesn’t take long until we’re in the dining hall. Ahead and to the left are dozens of long wooden tables, and to the right is a serving window. Behind it, a group of six kitchen staff in hairnets are doling out bacon, eggs, and fried mushrooms, and it’s only when I’m pummeled by the smell of grease and salt and buttered bread that I realize I’m totally starved.

As we get closer to the window I zero in on a skyscraper pile of toast that a harassed-looking woman is topping up with her left hand, while she feeds bread slices through a conveyer toaster with her right. I grab more pieces than I probably need, because I can, because holy shit, this is my life now. A life of perfect breakfasts. The last time I had an unlimited breakfast buffet was a vacation we took to visit my grandparents in Florida when I was, like, nine. And it didn’t look anywhere near as good as this spread.