“Thousands,” Jim corrected.

“Thousands, then. What would an ideal volunteer organization look like?”

The two men laughed again and Linda relaxed into the interview, feeling more and more confident. If not this job she would find another but the interview process was feeling more and more comfortable by the minute.

She left the Berkeley offices around noon and strolled through the Telegraph Avenue district. World-famous among college students, it struck her as familiar—street vendors, musicians, pizzaby-the-slice, organic restaurants and many, many earnest young faces. Her stomach growled near the falafel cart and she carried the fragrant pita up the steps of the landmark bell tower as it chimed twelve and found a comfortable spot to sit down.

With a very welcome winter sun caressing her face, she finally let herself think about Marissa.

How incredibly alive she had looked . . . her skin flushed from exercise, her brow beaded with sweat, her hair back in that cute ball cap. The confidence, the willingness to strive was as present as ever, including, Linda thought with chagrin, the self-will to push Linda away to avoid getting hurt again.

She had anticipated the anger but not taken into account Marissa’s strength of mind. It would take more than an apology to start a conversation. And if they didn’t talk, well, there was no hope at all.

She’d written dozens of letters in her head to Marissa while she’d been in Montana, then at Yale. Apologies, explanations, some whining. One desperate night, overloaded with coursework and dealing with a professor who seemed to delight in underscoring her rustiness in some areas, she’d packed her bags and nearly left. She might not have gone through with it but it was also true that one of the things that slowed her was thinking about how she’d explain to Marissa that she’d run away, one more time, when life got emotionally tough.

She dabbed tahini sauce from her chin and smiled into the sun. It was twelve degrees in Boston. She could use some sunshine in her life for a while.

With her suit jacket neatly hung on the hanger hooked on the passenger seat of the rental car, she made her way through the congested traffic, only missing her turn twice. Driving was still a new skill. The rental car had no trouble with a steep climb to the tunnel that would take her from Berkeley to the inner valley where Marissa lived and worked. It was also where her motel was.

She glanced in the mirror, meeting her own gaze. “That’s right, you’re not going to act like a stalker. Give her a few days to maybe look at the book.”

She’d written all the letters in her mind but the book was real. Congressional members could request any title be added to the Library of Congress, so, in time, the story she had so needed to tell would be permanently stored. She could let it all go now and hope for the side benefit of it making up for the words she’d never sent to Marissa.