So, I spent one hundred and fifteen of my dwindling dollars just after graduation to get fingerprinted for a tutoring job that ended before it began. Probably for the best. I hate children.

The next stop on the job hunt worked much better. The old man was a dream. He hugged me as soon as I walked through the door of his Alphabet city apartment. He called me his savior, not realizing he was mine. He talked to the crows outside on the trees, and once fell asleep on his bed while I proofed his work in the other room.

"I could have died just then," he said. "And I wouldn't have known."

He brought me to work with him in South Hampton, where he and his girlfriend fed me cereal and berries, water with lemon and mint, grilled vegetables, and cherry pie. I ended up on an eminent artist's private beach.

He took me to cafes sometimes and made me bill him for the hour spent eating sandwiches and talking about his many travels.

For those summer months, I divided my time between his house, organizing the office of a scholarly woman I sometimes work for, and delivering food on my bicycle.