I tore out of Boston like a feral raccoon on Dunkin’ espresso and generational trauma, engines howling, skyline dissolving in a blood-orange haze. No plan, no map—just a primal urge to chase the muse into the misty madness of Maine’s jagged, pine-stabbed coastline, where lobsters whisper secrets in your sleep. My mission? Questionable. My destination? Canada, that polite utopia of maple-syrup healthcare. But fate had other plans, dropping me into the orbit of Katherine.
To call her a “hostess” is like calling Dalí a doodler. She didn’t offer comfort; she conjured it. Her home was charged, time slowed, the walls breathed. She welcomed me—the wayward beast—with open arms, no questions, and a bed that whispered lullabies.
Katherine, sorceress of solace and snacks, you refueled my madness and polished my inner gremlin. In a country loud with static, you’re a beacon of human decency. Never change.