Brad was tied up to Ted’s loft bed, about four feet from my face, and if his eyes hadn’t been closed in ecstasy, he would have seen me staring down at him.

Ted’s niece, whose name I was really going to have to find out, was swaying toward him like a naked snake charmer, only she was on her knees because there wasn’t enough headroom in the loft to stand. When she reached his waist, she perched near the top of his groin, and from my angle, I swear it looked like she was breathing on and tickling him at the same time. For an absurd moment, I wondered if she was one of those poor women who had taken the term “blowjob” too literally, but then I realized what she was doing. She was playing Brad’s flute, accompanied by the nice Portuguese musicians I had bought for his listening pleasure.

I’d seen enough.

I crawled carefully back down the ladder, the April wind no match for the fumes emanating from my head. I considered storming into the apartment and demanding an explanation, but Brad wasn’t clever enough to juggle shame and an erection at the same time. Besides, I hated confrontation. The shitter was I had been thinking of breaking up with him, and now he would get the last word.

Or the last note, in this case.

No, clearly there was only one way this could end well for me. I let myself out the back door, removed the nuts holding the front tire onto Brad’s bike, and went for a walk. When I returned home that night, figured out nothing except that my life sucked and today would forever be known as Cocks ’n’ Roach Day.

I removed my coat and slumped onto my couch. When my phone rang, I almost didn’t answer it, but I figured, what did I have to lose?

“Hello?”

“Hey, Mira! It’s me. Sunny. What’s up? You sound funny. You OK?”

Sunshine Waters and I had met when my college roommate freshman year, Cecilia, took me to her hometown of Battle Lake, Minnesota, over Christmas break. Battle Lake was a town of 798 people three hours west of the Twin Cities and two hours north of Paynesville. Sunny had stayed around there after high school because she had emotional ties. Her parents had died when she was young, and the land she’d inherited from them provided her comfort. It was 103 acres of rolling hills, hardwoods, and lakeshore with a doublewide trailer plopped in the center and various outbuildings sprinkled around it. That’s where I had first met Sunny, at a Christmas party at her place, and we had hit it off instantly. She was smart, funny, and not afraid of chocolate.

“I’m great,” I said, wiping my eyes. “If you consider losing your job, getting flashed by an out—of—work guitarist with a penis like a microwaved legume, and finding your boyfriend cheating on you OK.”

I heard her intake of breath. “You caught Brad cheating on you?”

“Yeah. The good part is he doesn’t know I know, so I technically get to break up with him.”

“He was a weasel anyhow.”

I sniffled. “Yeah.”

“Hmm. You want to hear my good news?”

“Will it make me feel like even more of a loser?”

She laughed. “Probably.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I’m in love,” she squealed. “You remember Rodney Johnson?”

I riffled through the list of Battle Lake names I knew from visiting Sunny so often, and I finally pulled up a picture of a short, dark—haired guy who was always smiling. “The guy who took a girl to her prom when he was thirty—one?”

“That was a few years ago. He’s changed. He’s a real sweetheart.”

I sighed and switched the phone from my right to my left ear. Sunny picked up boyfriends like a world traveler gathered parasites—frequently, and with limited self—awareness. “Well, good. If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“I am happy. Got a favor to ask, too.”

“Yeah?” I was at the window, and I made a fist, pressing the side of my hand into the frost edging the glass and then dotting five little toes over the top of it. A baby snow—foot.

“I’m moving to Alaska for a few months. I decided. It’s for sure. Rodney has a job lined up on a fishing boat, and we can make a thousand dollars a week.”

“When?” As far as I knew, she knew no one in Alaska and hadn’t lived anywhere but Battle Lake her whole twenty—eight years. She must really like this dude.

“The first week of April. Here’s the favor. I need someone to housesit when I leave.” She paused.

I didn’t fill the empty air, but Lord help me, if I had known what I was in store for, I would have screamed “No!” with my last breath.

“You can garden, you can hike, you can do all that stuff you used to like to do,” she said, begging. “C’mon, Mira. If it doesn’t work out, you can always leave. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

When I still didn’t answer, she said firmly, “You got to get back to the dirt, Mira.”

“I don’t know,” I finally said. “Battle Lake is so small. What would I do there?”

“The library is hiring, and you can always waitress.” Sunny’s voice changed to a more serious tone. “I need you, Mira. I can’t bring Luna with, and nobody else will watch her.” Luna was the goofy—smart mixed breed Sunny had found at the side of the road a few years ago. “And I need someone to make sure the pipes don’t freeze. I think Rodney is the one, Mira. I don’t want to blow it.”

Sunny always thought whichever guy she was with was the one, but she rarely asked for help. I looked around. Ricki Lake was making over spandex—clad middle—aged women on my TV, my stove was hissing out dry heat in my kitchen, I no longer had a job or a boyfriend, and I was sitting in my all—purpose room waiting for my life to start.

Still, I hesitated. What sort of person just gets up and moves, and to Battle Lake of all places? I cradled the phone in the crook of my shoulder and put my hand to the graffittied window just as a pigeon crashed into it. I jumped back. The bird fluttered to the roof across the street, dazed and confused.

I sighed. “If you need me, Sunny, I’ll be there.”

* * *

It only took nine days to sever, or at least put on hold, my Minneapolis ties. Alison, Shannon, and Maruta from Perfume River had a going—away party for me, and I left with an armload of cockroach memorabilia and even a pair of bachelorette—party penis earrings. There were a couple women in my grad classes who made me laugh, and I left messages on their answering machines saying I was withdrawing this semester.

I did the same with Professor Bundy, the journalism teacher whose class I was haphazardly attending. He told me I had a real talent for writing and should be sure to come back. I considered calling the financial aid office at the U, but they were pathologically unhelpful, and I would have to repay my loan whether or not I was in class. I had a month—to—month lease that I ended with a phone call.

My books and my clothes I tossed into tall kitchen garbage bags with yellow cinch ties at the top and stuffed them in my brown two—door 1985 Toyota Corolla’s trunk. I placed the same type of bags, only more gently, around my plants to protect them from the cold and transported them to the Toyota’s backseat floor. My cat, Tiger Pop, named after my second—favorite candy and her mottled, white—splashed fur, was brought down last and unwillingly. I set her litter box and water dish on the floor of the passenger seat, knowing full well she would be attached to my shoulder and howling the whole two—and—a—half—hour trip.

I studied my first apartment for the last time. The living room that was also my dining room and bedroom looked beige and lonely. Even the blue, green, and yellow watercolor willow trees I had painted my first summer in the apartment didn’t add life. I realized they would be painted over within the month.

My secondhand orange—flowered couch and mismatched chairs would be brought to the dump, my three pots, five bowls, and twelve plastic cups would be recycled or trashed, and all traces of my existence would vanish. Ten years in Minneapolis, and I had nothing but an English degree and a budding drinking problem to show for it. Now I knew how people ended up in small towns.

Battle Lake, here I come.