Ruth nods, eyes cutting to a herd of people decked out in their bathing suits, heading to the water park. The doors blast open and the roar and gurgle of water rides rushes out before the doors muzzle it again. “All ready to go. There are some dying wishes of Violet’s to run over with you, but the fine details can wait until after your arrival.”

A blue mist sweeps across hoods and trunks in the parking lot, swirling up in capricious spring winds. My heart lifts with new hopes, new plans taking shape, pumping ferociously.

“The property is mine,” I say quietly. My voice sounds strange, not like myself.

“The property is yours,” Ruth affirms. Minutes slip away as I sort through this reality, but Ruth shows no signs of impatience. She merely excuses herself to buy a coffee and croissant, then returns and eats in companionable silence.

“What’s the catch?” I ask. “There has to be a catch.”

She chokes on her croissant and gulps the coffee, wincing. “Went down the wrong pipe. Don’t worry yourself, it’s all in order. No debts, no mortgage. Violet thought of everything.”

I flatten my hands on the table. That’s all there is to it, then. “Okay.” Deep breath, Maybell. “I guess that means that . . . I quit.” It comes out sounding like a question. I quit? Can I do that? Is this really happening?

Christine is at the checkout desk, berating a temp for parking in her spot. I could stroll up to her right now and make a big, dramatic scene. A satisfying “I quit!” story for the ages.

I could throw my name tag in the pool.

Confidently lay out all my grievances and how she’ll be sorry when I’m gone. How many hours I’ve given to this company, only for them to stick me with a health insurance policy that’s riddled with holes, no paid overtime, and none of the bonuses I was led to believe I’d receive. I could point at the wet seats and say Clean. That. Up. Punctuating each word with an obnoxious clap of my hands.

Dark spots speckle the edges of my vision as I stare at Christine, who senses being watched and turns to give me a Why are you sitting down on the clock? look. God, how gratifying it would be to utter the magic words.

But when Christine taps her watch and frowns pointedly, old habits die hard. I’m a meek little mouse, rising to my feet as if I’m going to head straight back to the dorm-room desk behind a folding wall that is supposed to be my office, which I am never at because they’ve eternally got me shampooing gum out of the carpet.

No one’s around to bear witness when I carefully leave my name tag, key card, and lanyard in the break room. No one looks twice when I retrieve my purse from my locker. I almost take my stash of Mountaineer Tickets with me, good-behavior rewards I’ve been saving up to cash out for a large lemonade slushee. They’re useless in the real world, so I shove them into the temp’s locker. It’s surreal to be leaving, and just as surreal to be leaving so quietly. After more than a decade of dreaming I might be the type of person who goes out with a bang, I’m not even giving a fizzle.

My hand’s on the front door, ready to push, when Gemma shouts my name from up on the giant novelty rocking chair that families like to sit on and pose for a single picture that costs them $29.99. She’s taking a selfie. I quit even harder.

“Hey, Maybell! Are you going on break?”

This is it.

You suck astronomically and I will miss you the least. You screwed with my head, abused my trust, and had the audacity to be so nice that it will never not confuse me. You’re a rock in my shoe. An out-of-order bathroom stall. A traffic jam. A loose handful of gumballs in a trick-or-treat bucket.

Anybody else would say that—and worse. But unfortunately I’m me, a passive doormat who probably will miss her, so I wave back with a tight smile.

“Yeah. See you in a bit.”

And then I’m out the door, my back turned to her. My last words to Gemma Peterson weren’t brave, but it lifts a weight off my shoulders to know they’re the last. A new smile, one that is small but one that is real, tugs at my lips. The last time I wore a real smile . . . it’s been long enough that I can’t remember it.

There’s a superstition about luck, and it goes like this: a run of bad luck is followed by a run of good luck. This is the silver lining, the softening edges. I spent my teenage years in dingy motels or on sofas belonging to whoever my mother was dating at the time, carted behind her all over Tennessee, missing chunks of school. I’ve picked all the wrong, cheating boyfriends and should have accumulated a hard shell of trust issues, but my heart’s too cowardly and still runs jumping into whoever’s arms will open for it. I’ve scrubbed toilets and been demeaned and ignored and promoted as a consolation prize, only to be shoved aside yet again. My best friend isn’t my friend at all. The love of my life doesn’t exist.

My heart has been humiliated. Pulverized. And here, right out of the sky, drops my run of good luck.

I’m making my fresh start at Falling Stars.

* * *

• • • • • • •

TOP OF THE WORLD is a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it unincorporated community in Blount County with a population too meager to warrant a school or a post office. Growing up, I thought it probably wasn’t really called Top of the World—probably, it was just a local nickname—but then I found it in a phone book. And I thought that was simply the most enchanting thing ever.

The last time I was here I was wedged in the passenger seat of a blue ’91 Toyota Camry, ten years old and crying my eyes out. Mom couldn’t focus, she was so mad, lurching horribly in a stop-go-stop-go frenetic escape from town, checking the rearview mirror like a thief on the lam to make sure no relatives were on our tail. Part of me has never recovered from my disappointment that we weren’t followed.

Now I’m in the driver’s seat of that same car, and it all looks so unreal through rock-bottom Maybell’s grown-up eyes. Both different and the same, like the image has been flipped and I’m viewing the scene from the opposite side. A storage tote, three boxes, and a gym bag squished into the trunk and backseat contain all of my worldly possessions. You don’t amass too many worldly possessions when you work for minimum wage and you’ve spent most of your life with someone who helped themselves to whatever you had.