He smiles apologetically. “All sales are final. It’s acharity auction.”
“It’s fine,” I say, signing another form with a flourish. “It’s an adventure.”
“It’s amidlife crisis,” Abby mutters.
“I’m thirty-one!”
“Early-onset midlife crisis.”
Marcus clears his throat. “Ms. Winslow, this is the deed transfer. It will be processed tomorrow, and you’ll be the official owner of—” he checks his papers, “—Lot 27, Pinecrest Road, Maple Glen, Washington.”
I sign with a signature that looks like it belongs to a drunk person, which feels appropriate.
“Congratulations,” Marcus says, handing me a folder of papers. “You’re a homeowner.”
The word lands like a brick.Homeowner.Me. Penny Winslow. Professional chameleon. Emotional nomad.
“I need another drink,” I tell Abby.
“You really,reallydon’t.”
The next morning,I wake up with three things: a hangover from hell, a deed to a house I’ve never seen, and the sinking feeling that I’d just blown up my entire life with one raised auction paddle.
My phone shows 27 missed calls from Abby, 3 texts from my mother (unrelated to my crisis—just her usual stream-of-consciousness updates about her crystal collection), and an email from Diana with the subject line:Restructuring Update: Your Position.
I open that one first, because apparently I enjoy pain.
Penny,
As discussed, the agency is moving in a more streamlined direction. While your creative contributions have been valued, we’ve decided to eliminate your position effectiveimmediately. Your final paycheck and severance details will be processed by HR.
I’m sure you’ll land on your feet.
Best,
Diana
I stare at my phone, the hangover headache pulsing behind my eyes in perfect rhythm with my mounting panic. Fired. I’ve been fired.Via email.After five years.
With robotic movements, I open my banking app. The non-refundable deposit from last night has already cleared—a $15,000 chunk bitten out of my savings. The remaining $60,000 will process within three business days, according to the paperwork.
That’s... most of my savings. The money I’ve been squirreling away for some nebulous“someday”that never had a concrete shape—until apparently last night, when it took the form of a tiny house in a town I’ve never heard of.
I switch to Google, typing with shaky fingers:Maple Glen Washington.
The results load:Maple Glen, Washington: Historic logging town turned artisan community. Population 2,943. Known for its craftsman architecture, annual Maple Festival, and proximity to Olympic National Forest.
I click on Images and see a quaint main street with mountains in the background. A town square with an actual gazebo. A diner calledThe Griddlewith a neon sign shaped like a pancake.
It looks like the kind of place where everyone knows everyone else’s business.
Where city people like me are probably viewed as invasive species.
I switch back to my email, where another notification has appeared—this one from the Northwest Community Housing Initiative, welcoming me as the new owner of the property and providing contact information for Carver & SonsContracting.
I drop my phone onto the bed and press the heels of my hands against my eyes.
I’ve been fired. I’ve spent most of my savings on a house I’ve never seen. In a town I’ve never been to. That probably doesn’t have a single decent espresso machine within city limits.
