Soon after my family moved to Federal Way, my mom told me that the SeaTac Mall had the first ever Cinnabon. The flagship. In my seven-year-old mind, this meant importance, gravitas. We tried it out one day, the gloopy mess of dough and icing practically heaving atop our paper plates. Even as a typically greedy child, I knew that there was something excessive about a Cinnabon, that it could be the gateway to some very bad things. Judiciously, my mothersliced mine into quarters with the flimsy plastic knife. Soon after gobbling up a few bites, I went droopy and lethargic for the rest of the afternoon.

That day, I learned that Cinnabon was a luxury that would make you pay in the end. But it was one of the few claims to fame that Federal Way had, other than being a place where the Green River Killer would go hot-tubbing or where apartments were cheap. I’d felt part of something important when we lived in Seattle, where you could travel 600 feet up the Space Needle or watch people throw fish in the Market. Down in the suburbs, I felt beige andinsubstantial. Even at a young age, I noticed this difference in how a place could make you feel.