But who?

I specifically left “back home” to get away from everyone. And the thing I’m not thinking about. If I invite anyone from back home, then that is out the window. But what about this? A family member. A cousin. Two cousins even. A cousin is the kind of person you can randomly email and get to come to some house in the middle of nowhere, right? Because family.

It just so happens that I have two cousins who might actually do such a thing and are not too annoying. They live with my aunt and uncle in Chicago and they have never been mean to me for being from the middle of nowhere. In fact, they’ve always been pretty nice about it. Intrigued. Curious. Ready with questions about what the kids at my school wear and what we say and how the social structure is ordered.

They go to kind of a fancy school because my uncle, aka the one I’m not related to, is sort of persnickety about that stuff. Like, he’s the kind of guy who takes pride in his kids going to a really good school and having “authentic experiences” when traveling or whatever. Which makes me think . . . If you want your kids to have such “authentic experiences,” why don’t you just send them to an “authentic” school rather than a billion dollar one? But perhaps his authentic-meter can only be filled out of the country. Either way. They’re nice. And, right now, they might have to come here and save my life and/or sanity. I make a note to myself. Yes, I will reach out to them.

Her name is Abby and his name is Ollie. She’s one year older and definitely seems like she might be president one day. Ollie is my age and is more like the kind of kid who wears Converse high-tops and plays the drums. Really well, mind you. I’m not kidding. You should see him. I saw a video my aunt posted and it was kind of like everyone at the school talent show was silenced into submission by his otherworldly ability on the drums.

But there are no drums here. Just “a cat” or something outside, some mysterious scratching noises and a bunch of super-bros working on the guesthouse. I make up my mind to call my cousins. It will be half a plea and half a description of a glamorous getaway-slash-sleepover with no parents. Maybe I will bill it as an “authentic experience.”

In town, there’s a little café called “Mabel’s Muffins,” complete with a mural on the wall of a forest made entirely of pastries. I have to wonder if this was Mabel’s idea or if somebody just randomly came into town and asked her if he could paint a muffin forest on her wall. You never really know. Maybe she built the café just because she was looking for a place to showcase her pastry landscape.

As I walk in, I’m pretty sure that the aforementioned Mabel is standing in the corner over the coffeemaker, in an apron that says, “Kiss Me, I’m Desperate.” But she doesn’t really look desperate. She looks nice, actually. An ash-blond bun in her hair with wisps everywhere. She looks like someone you would cast in a movie as the hardworking hero’s wife. She works hard, too, to keep bread on the table, but she never loses faith and she’s loyal as a lion. Before the hero goes off to fight zombies, she’d look at him reassuringly. She would know that he would never make it through the zombie apocalypse, but that “a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do” and she’d let him go. In the end, she’d be the only one to survive. Here, in the muffin forest.