“Did you try to work at McDonald's?”

Nod. “I wanted my own money. But they said no. ‘No outside work until your grades come up.’ Which they won't, so forget that.”

“Why won't your grades come up?” I said.

“'Cause I don't want them to.”

“So it's a few more years of this.”

Her eyes shifted. “I'll figure something out— Listen, forget sex. I don't want to talk to you about it. Or anything else. No offense, but I just don't want to spill my guts.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, great.” She shot to her feet. “See you next week.”

Ten minutes to go. I said, “No way you can stick it out?”

“Are you going to tell them I split early?”

“No, but—”

“Thanks,” she said. “No, I really can't stick it out, this is hurting my head— Tell you what, next week I'll come on time and stay the whole time, okay? Promise.”

“It's only ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes too long.”

“Give it a chance, Lauren. We don't have to talk about your problems.”

“What, then?”

“Tell me about your interests.”

“I'm interested in the beach,” she said. “Okay? I'm interested in freedom— which is exactly what I need right now. Next week I'll be good— I mean it.”

Next week. Conning me or did she really intend to return?

“I've gotta get out of here.”

“Sure,” I said. “Take care.”

Big smile. Hair flip. “You're a doll.” Swinging the purse like a slingshot, she hurried out. I caught up with her in the waiting room, just as she whipped out her lighter.

Jamming the cigarette in her mouth, she shoved at the door. I watched her trot down the hall, a girl in a hurry, haloed by a cloud of smoke.

I thought about her a few times— the image of selfdestructive escape. Then that faded too.

* * *

Six years later I was invited to a bachelor party the weekend before Halloween.

A forty-five-year-old radiation oncologist at Western Pediatrics was getting married to an O.R. nurse, and a consortium of hospital physicians and administrators had rented the presidential suite of the Beverly Monarch Hotel for the send-off.

Steaks, ribs, buffalo wings, assorted fried and grilled stuff on the buffet. Iced tubs of beer, serve-yourself bar, Cuban cigars, gooey desserts. My contact with the honoree— a mumbling loner lacking in social skills— had been a few stiff, unproductive discussions about patient care, and I wondered why I'd been included in the festivities. Perhaps every face helped.

There was no shortage of faces when I arrived late. The suite was vast, a string of mood-lit, black-carpeted rooms packed with sweaty men. Penthouse level— no doubt a great view— but the drapes were drawn and the air felt heavy. Suit jackets and neckties were heaped on a sofa near the door under a hand-lettered sign that said, GET CASUAL! I made my way through testosterone guffaws, random backslapping, blue cigar fog, the strained glee of boozy toasts.