The money helped. She signed a lease on an apartment in Harlem with two friends and once there, spent the summer applying for internships and entry-level jobs. She bought some cute interview clothes, shoes made of supple leather that molded to her feet. She procured a summer internship with a literary agent, an elderly woman who rolled her own cigarettes, ate sardines, and hated all of her clients, and then in the fall, landed an entry-level assistant publicist job at one of the most esteemed publishing houses in the country. The assistants from the various departments went once a week to happy-hour tapas at a bar in Union Square and Elisa would spend too much money on sangria and whatever slider or oyster everyone else ordered. And at night, she would sit on her bed, on the sheets she bought at a discount store, tiny lightning bolts across them, and she would feel overwhelmed with it, that she had so easily, so simply gotten the life that she wanted.