After the weekend, I have a couple of days off work, which is a rare luxury. Nina has quit her job at the bar in town - the same bar I used to play piano at, and also where I met Nina when I turned to drinking - so we spend the whole two days together, squeezing in as much friendship as possible before she leaves town for good. We take turns making breakfast, and eat together at the kitchen bar, we go to the mall and the movie theater, we go out for dinner; all the things we used to do, before we became complacent and considered watching TV from the same couch sufficient bonding. She talks a lot about Portland and Kyle and I'm excited for her, truly, but sometimes it's hard to hide how much I'm going to miss her.

When I get to the diner on Wednesday morning, there's a new girl behind the counter, wearing the blue Greasy's uniform. She's facing the kitchen, so all I see is a wavy brown ponytail and a pink scrunchy, a petite and slender frame. When it pops into my head that she's cute, I honestly consider bolting back out the door, because that's the same girl I've been internally debating whether to hug or punch the next time I see her, and I haven't come to a decision yet.

Mabel Pines, Greasy's waitress. It just doesn't sound like it's going to work. I rush into the back office with my head down, where Lindsay is sat in front of a spreadsheet, her reading glasses pressed right up to the monitor.

"Morning hon," she says. "Nice break?"

"Yeah," I sigh. "You didn't tell me we had somebody starting today."

She frowns, pulling her glasses further down her nose. "That's Mabel, the girl you recommended. She started yesterday. She didn't tell you?"

I guess I gave Lindsay the impression that we're friends. Are we friends? I don't think so. Why did I tell her about the job again? "We're not on the best of terms right now."

"Well, dear, you should have said. I'm not sure I can do anything now - I can't ask her to leave."

"No, of course not. I wouldn't ask you to do that. It's fine. We'll work something out," I say, forcing a smile and hanging up my hoodie on the coat hooks.

"While I have you here, I'm trying to click on these little boxes to change the figures but it won't let me."

I lean in to look at the monitor. "That's a screenshot of a spreadsheet that you've opened as a PowerPoint presentation." She doesn't know what half of those words mean, so I take the mouse and sort it out for her, like I always do.

You know those perfume commercials where some gorgeous woman struts around a busy city street, halting traffic and parting crowds like Moses, with a look of utmost arrogance because she's the only one among these heathens who has figured out that the secret to success is to smell like flowers? I walk out of the office kind of like that, right up to Mabel, who is now brewing coffee.

I tell her, "look, we don't have to get along, we don't even have to talk to each other. Just stay out of my way, and we'll be fine. And don't even think about inviting your boyfriend back here, or I'll tell Lindsay about how he tried to rob the place on Saturday night." I don't wait around for a response.

The rest of the day plays out exactly as expected. The only thing I say to her is, "I've got this one," when a group walks in and both of us are unoccupied. Beth and I divvy up the tables fifty-fifty when we're on the same shift, but Mabel hasn't picked up on that yet, and I'll take the extra tips away from her until she does.

I get a two hour break in the afternoon, and Wendy pulls up in her van with Nina riding shotgun. They honk the horn from the parking lot an obnoxious number of times, cackling as I hurry out the door with my head down. We're headed to a café out of town, because eating diner food as half of my meals makes my face flare up with spots if I keep it up for too long. But just as I'm climbing in the back seat, Wendy spots Mabel walking around inside and practically falls out of the van in excitement. Nina follows along behind her, saying she wants to introduce herself, despite everything I've told her about Mabel.

And I just sit back in the van, watching them between the two headrests. Mabel lights up when she sees Wendy, and accepts a rather full-on hug. She shakes Nina's hand. I don't like it. I'm watching two universes collide and I don't like it. They're interrogating Mabel for a good five minutes, and she keeps glancing over her shoulder at Lindsay or a table she's supposed to be serving, clearly wary of being a time thief.

When my disloyal friends finally decide to return to the van, Wendy asks me, "has it been awkward?"

"A little."

"I can't see how," Nina says. "She seems lovely."

I scowl at the back of Nina's head. "That's all part of her act. You don't know her."

The afternoon is even quieter than the morning. It starts to rain outside. It's the kind of afternoon that Lindsay usually digs Connect 4 out of the back office and sets it up for us on the counter, periodically glancing out the windows and providing running commentary on the weather ("it's really coming down out there", "cats and dogs",et cetera). But today she's distracted, making a lot of discreet calls from the phone on her desk. My theory is she's seeing a new man (or getting laid, as Beth so delicately puts it). I keep glancing back into the office and Lindsay's giggling into the receiver, reviving her teenage girlhood, which makes me smile.

Mabel spends the downtime sitting in the booth in the far corner, reaping the benefits of unlimited soda. Every time my eyes drift over her she isn't absorbed in her phone, tapping into the wide world outside the diner, which is my default mode. She's gazing out the window, into the forest, or at the fragments of town visible from here. She was always like that, I guess. Like all that's important is whatever's in her immediate vicinity.

Time crawls, and at 7 P.M. I notice her throw on a jacket and her backpack. I'm polishing glasses, trying to expel her out the door telepathically, but of course she appears opposite me and leans across the counter.

"Can we talk?" she says.

A derisive laugh falls out of my mouth. "Where would we start?"

"I could start by apologizing. For everything. Though I'm not sure that would mean much to you now."

"You're right. And I'm still on shift, anyway."

"Then can I come back later?"

"Seems to me that we could spend an hour dredging up the past and then avoid each other all summer, or we could just avoid each other all summer."

"Is that what you want? You're the one who told me about this job opening."

"Yeah, well... alcohol can cloud your judgement. Kinda like how you stumbled in here the other night with the idea that our food is free."

Her lips draw a straight line. "For the record, I told Lindsay about all of that before I even sat down for my interview. And I've told Jason to stay away from here if he can't behave himself. We're both sorry."

"I don't need his apology. The guy's an ape."

I'm not watching, but I hear her huff and walk away. And then she's there again. "I'm not going to quit. And I'm not going to give up trying to talk to you, either." She opens her mouth, like there's more to say, then shuts it and scurries outside.

In my Saturday AA meeting, I share with the group for the first time ever. I wasn't planning on it, but I've been going through a spell of pre-emptive loneliness, what with Nina's impending departure. I've been considering asking Wendy to move in with me, but I don't think it's a good idea. Her life seems like one eternal party at times, and I doubt I could convince her to tone that down in the apartment for my sake.

I tell the group I'm two weeks sober, that I'm worried that my sponsor leaving town will distress me to the point of relapse. People nod and hum agreement and spout words of encouragement. It's always hard to tell who is being fake-nice, though. One of the rules of AA is don't be an asshole, so how am I supposed to know which of them genuinely care for what I have to say? And does it even matter? Probably not. Nina says I have trust issues. I think she's right, but can I really trust her opinion?

I have to catch the bus back to Gravity Falls, which I have only ever seen one other person ride on. I'm skeptical as to why it still bothers showing up every hour. If you haven't already realized, I never learned how to drive. It's one of those things I've put off doing for so many years that it no longer feels necessary for my survival. All my school friends were older than me by a number of months, so they were all driving before I turned fifteen, and I could hitch rides around with them, wherever they were going. My mom points out every time I see her that it's a useful skill to have, and she has offered to teach me on several occasions, but spending extended lengths of time in an enclosed space with my mother is bound to cause fatalities. I wouldn't be able to resist the urge to swerve into oncoming traffic. Or park on a railway.

The weather has finally picked up, but I have to enjoy it through the windows of the diner in the afternoon. My shift overlaps with Beth's, but she leaves at 4 P.M. and Mabel takes over. They chat by the door for fifteen minutes like they're already best friends, which makes sense. I've overheard customers refer to Beth and I as "the bubbly one" and "the moody one."

About an hour into her shift, Mabel trips while carrying a tray loaded with drinks, and collapses to the ground with a symphony of smashed glass. I watch the whole spectacle from behind the counter, amused at first, and then worried because she doesn't spring back up from the floor right away. Lindsay hurries over from the table she was serving at an unprecedented speed for high heels, and crouches to make sure she's okay, before apologizing to the family the drinks were for, who look down at Mabel with concern in their eyes and milkshake on their shoes. Once I see her on her feet again with Lindsay's help, I grab the broom out of the kitchen and move in to sweep up the broken glass. Mabel hobbles towards the back office, her shirt wet around her midriff, and I almost freak out before I realize it's Coke, not blood. Her eyes flick up to mine for a second, both of us devoid of expression.

It's not until that evening, when the floor's clean and showing no trace of the drama, and we're clear of customers, that I start to feel sorry for her. She's back in that booth in the corner, rubbing at the shoulder she fell on, reading a crumpled piece of notepaper flattened out on the table. Her fall seems to have sapped the energy out of her. Beyond the physical pain, it can be embarrassing, the silence following the crash, the collective stares of the restaurant, everybody internally questioning if they should jump in and help. God knows I've felt all of it before.

I walk over, sit opposite her in the booth, and hold her gaze for a second. "Is your shoulder okay?"

She nods, and pulls down the short sleeve, folds her hands over the paper in front of her.

"What brought you back here?" I ask her, because it's been weighing on my mind. I don't mean for it to sound spiteful; my voice naturally takes on that tone sometimes.

"It's my job," she says.

"No, not the diner. I mean, why did you come back to Gravity Falls?"

"Oh. Well, I don't know if you heard, but my Uncle Ford passed away back in November."

"That sucks. No, I hadn't heard."

"We never had a funeral because he requested us not to in his will, which I thought was crazy. But he also left three envelopes - one for Stan, one for me, one for Dipper. They're supposed to lead us to fulfill his last wishes. That's what I have here," she says, sliding the note across the table.

In neat handwriting, it reads:

My contents will feed mouths

And sometimes flows from them,

Like the talk of monsters

And relics forgotten,

Trust no one, lies linger

On the lips that you meet,

But nothing holds secrets

Like the earth at my feet.

"A riddle," I say, pointlessly.

"Mhmm. The envelope said it was only to be opened once I was in Gravity Falls, and that's all that was inside. Dipper already came up here in his winter break to open his, but he wouldn't tell me anything about it. When I sent him this riddle, he said I have to work it out myself, that Ford would have wanted it that way. But I'm getting worried I'm going to be up here all summer without ever figuring it out. Stan's gone off on his boat, as part of his. He couldn't tell me where."

I look up and frown. "So your uncle wanted all of you to run around scratching your heads to carry out his last wishes? That's a dick move."

She looks at me blankly.

"Sorry."

"It's fine. Ford was just always like this, he lived his life through riddles and codes and puzzles. It's fitting, really. Dipper loves it, Stan is… tolerating it. I don't think I'm smart enough for it, though," she chuckles.

"Is he talking about some kind of animal? My contents will feed mouths. Like a pig or a cow?"

"Maybe. But then the second line doesn't make sense."

"And sometimes flows from them," I murmur. I only met Mabel's uncle a handful of times. I know he used to spend a lot of time in the basement of the Mystery Shack, and people rarely knew what he was up to. If Mabel knew the man and she can't figure this out, I don't think I stand much of a chance. I pass the paper back to her and turn my attention to the window.

"Pacifica," she says, her voice low. "If I could take back everything I did..."

"Don't, please. Please don't start talking about that."

"But I'm going to be here for three months, I don't see how we can work together and ignore it the whole time."

"Why not?" I say, standing up. The ceasefire is over. "It happened four years ago, we should both be over it."

I go back to the counter and say over my shoulder, "talking about it isn't going to change anything."

So we fall silent again. Customers wander in and out, and I'm so busy keeping up the rhythm of avoiding Mabel that I don't stop to consider why Lindsay has assigned me a buddy for the evening shift until the very end of the night. It's possible that she's lost trust in me since my hiccup two weeks ago, but what did she think I was going to do tonight? Throw a rave in her diner? I don't see why she would so quickly put all of her faith in Mabel to keep me in check.

As the night winds down, the music playing over the speakers changes every few seconds, because Mabel has found the digital jukebox and can't get over how high-tech it is. I've heard snippets of Taylor Swift, Daft Punk, Three Dog Night, Rihanna, Elvis Presley, and Frank Sinatra all in the course of thirty seconds. How diverse.

I bite down on my tongue for as long as I can bear. "Can you pick a fucking song and leave it alone?" I call out.

You Make My Dreams by Hall & Oates comes on, and Mabel appears from behind the soft serve machine, bouncing her body around mechanically.

"Oh, for god's sake."

She extends both of her arms and points at me on the you ooh, ooh ooh part, and my lips betray me and form a smirk. She edges closer to the counter and holds out her hand over the cash register. I can see the creases in her palms.

"Absolutely not."

"Come on," she sings. "For old times' sake."

"No. I'm not just going to pretend that everything's okay, Mabel."

She slows to a standstill, and lets her arms hang limply at her sides. Our eyes land in a cold standoff, the upbeat tune suddenly seeming like a poor choice for the moment. I'd love to walk in her shoes for a day, see what the world looks like through her rose-tinted pupils.

Julio bursts through the kitchen door, as he sometimes does for no obvious reason. He glances between us, clearly aware that he has walked in on something uncomfortable, but then with utmost indifference, he says goodnight, saunters to the door, slings his apron towards the coat rack, misses, and then walks outside anyway.

We hurry between tables, cleaning up for the night. Mabel is just about to leave as I'm emptying the mop bucket into the kitchen sink, and the murky water swirling into the drain jogs my mind. My contents feeds mouths and also flows from them.

"Hey, Mabel?" I call out, pushing through the kitchen door.

She turns around by the door, her jacket half-zipped, mouth hanging open.

"What about water?"

"Huh?"

"The riddle," I say, advancing across the room and gesticulating at her pocket. "Water feeds mouths."

She straightens out the paper and I read it again over her shoulder. "But does it flow from mouths?"

"The mouth of a river," I say, and watch her eyes light up.

"So it could be, like... a water bottle?"

"I don't know. The middle part doesn't make a lot of sense. And whatever it is, it has to have feet," I say, pointing at the last line.

There's a minute of quiet, save for our breathing. Then Mabel practically shouts, "the water tower!" She grips onto my arm and quickly swipes her hand back, like it burned. "The water tower has legs. And I told Grunkle Ford all about how I climbed it once with Stan, to help him get over his fear of heights, but then I ended up hating heights more than he did, and... it has to be the water tower, Ford is trying to... make me relive my memories, or something."

We leave the diner at the same time, and walk side by side along the short unlit trail back to town, using my phone's flashlight. Neither of us need to say anything; we both know that I'm going back to the Mystery Shack with Mabel, to fetch whatever it is we need to dig up a dead man's wealth in the middle of the night. For old times' sake.

The Shack comes into view from the winding dirt road, and my heart skips a beat. Every time I walk by it I can see the ghost of my younger self in the front yard, sprawled out on the couch on the porch, lighting fireworks, climbing into Wendy's van. And I can feel traces of that betrayal from when Mabel left for the last time.

She unlocks the front door and lets us in. I hadn't planned on crying today, so when tears spring to my eyes I breathe deeply and blink until they back off. Everything is just how I remember it, with that warm yellow glow from the lamps flooding the front room. The furniture is all in the same place, the armchair, the fish tank, the TV, the table at the back where I ate breakfast and played poker and fell further and further in love. The peeling wallpaper. Everything awful and magical about it, all still here. After all these years.

Mabel starts to say something, but her fiancé wanders into view, spoiling it. He's eating cereal standing up. I bet the milk splashes on his beard and dries up. "Hey babe," he says, and when his eyes flitter to me he almost chokes. "Oh shit. Hey, um, I'm really sorry about the other night, um..."

"Pacifica."

"Pacifica. I'm really sorry about that, I'd been drinking since, like, four, and I get silly when I'm drunk. And those other guys were egging me on, and... you know."

I shake my head. "That's not how I remember it."

There's nothing, now, except the low buzz of a light bulb. Fiancé chews slowly on his cereal, because, yes, he gave that whole spiel through a mouthful of oats.

Mabel takes my arm again and tugs me toward the stairs. "We're heading back out in a minute," she calls out. "Got some things to take care of."

I follow her up the stairs, Jason's shadow draping over us. "This late?" he says.

"Yep."

"What are you doing?"

"The thing that I came here to do," she says, venom in her voice like I've never heard. Then to me, she mutters, "the thing he didn't want any freaking part in."

We wind up in the storage room, which is the only part of the building that seems different. It's more cluttered. I suppose that makes sense - Stan Pines is a notorious hoarder. Mabel dives right in, ducking under a shelf and rummaging behind boxes.

"Why is he here?" I ask, keeping my voice low. "I mean, if he wasn't helping with the riddle, what does he do all day?"

"That's a great question. When we first got here, we took a lot of nature hikes. Did some of the touristy stuff. Did you know they replaced Li'l Gideon with a lookalike? He sucks, the poor kid. I'm not even convinced he's telepathic," she says, popping up behind a large chest like a gopher.

I frown. "Li'l Gideon wasn't telepathic either."

"Wasn't he?"

"Do I even need to answer that?"

"Well anyway, now Jason has discovered that drinking all day with those buddies of his he found down at the boating lake is a dandy way to spend his summer. I mean, I like a drink as much as the next person, but him? It's like he's become dependent on it. I wouldn't be surprised if that was tequila on his cereal."

I keep my mouth shut after that. Judge not lest ye be judged.

"Aha," Mabel shouts. She lifts up two shovels and grins like a maniac.

At just after midnight, Mabel sets a flashlight on the ground, illuminating the patch of dirt directly below the town's water tower. We start by digging below each leg, but find nothing, and just as I'm realizing that none of my drunk late-night escapades were ever this absurd and I consider walking home, I jam my shovel into the center of the patch and hit something metallic. Mabel hears it and whips her head around. I step back and let her take over, and after a minute of dodging the dirt flying at my legs, Mabel pulls a small toolbox out of the ground and wipes it down with her bare hands.

She looks up at me. "I don't know if I'm ready for what's in here."

I can imagine. Opening that box is like letting go, saying goodbye, for good. "I'd offer to open it for you, but I think it's got to be you."

Mabel crouches down next to the flashlight, takes a breath, and opens the box, wincing as if it's about to explode. She pulls out a single piece of paper and pores over it, her eyebrows knitting together. When she doesn't speak, I squat next to her and read it myself.

It's a grid of sixteen squares, four rows by four columns, some with squiggly black lines, some containing rectangles, and some with nothing at all. The square in the top left contains a bold 'X'; Mabel points to it and murmurs that it's some kind of map. Each square has a pair of numbers in the corner, presumably coordinates. But the lines don't connect at all, like the squares are in the wrong order.

She groans. "My head hurts."

"It's late. I could help you with it another time," I say, without really thinking. "I mean, if you want."

"That'd be great," she smiles, and I notice that our faces are danger-close, and our eyes are locked, and I can feel her breath on my face.

And I stand up and shrug it off, because it was under those exact circumstances that the ugly demise of our friendship began.