Maya Osei moves to Missoula on a Saturday in March with two suitcases, fourteen boxes, and the complete certainty that she has made an excellent decision.
This certainty lasts approximately four days.
Not because of the apartment. The apartment is everything she chose it to be — third floor, south-facing windows, a kitchen that has enough counter space to be taken seriously, the window alcove she turned into a reading nook within forty-eight hours of getting the keys. Not because of Aria, who is fourteen minutes away and calls daily and brought her a houseplant on day two with a note that said don't kill this one in reference to the legendary string of plant fatalities in Maya's New York apartment.
The certainty wavers because of the quiet.
