Chapter one for me was when I missed the morning bus to the museum, tripped over a pothole shaped like Paraguay, and instead found a small cafe that had the world’s best cinnamon toast. The owner said the toast was made by a retired chef who’d once fed the mayor’s cat. I figured that was my secret garden, just written in butter and sugar instead of vines. The bus? I’ve written its name in my list of nearly fatal mistakes—one of them gets a tiny sunburn badge.