My friend Rachel let me sleep on her couch after I left. She was kind in all the practical ways that matter. She bought oat milk because I liked it. She moved the coffee table so I wouldn’t hit my shin at night. She pretended not to notice when I stayed in the shower too long because hot water was the only place I could cry without feeling watched. But her apartment was small, and in small apartments kindness has acoustics. I could hear her and her boyfriend whispering in the kitchen at night, wondering how long this would last. They were not cruel. I was simply too much life exploded into too little space.
It was Rachel, sitting in the courthouse parking lot with both hands tight on the steering wheel, who said, “Go north.”
I turned to her.
“Your grandfather’s place,” she said. “Just go. Clear your head. Figure out what comes next.”
So I drove north for four hours.