And I was there at Cedars-Sinai when she died, surrounded by the gang, her loyal group of friends. I used to wish Mom had given me the tools with which she’d built her friendships. The gang knew her in ways I never did, and now, on her deathbed, she rested, cloaked in intimacy. When I surveyed my life, I found nothing like that—no shelter, no history—like I’d passed through time on an empty wind.

But since her death, I’ve come to loathe, rather than envy, that kind of friendship, all that emotion bursting through the surface. I look back on how the gang wailed and moaned at her bedside and it all seems false and ridiculous. I think words perish in the open air. Only what’s sealed inside is real.

I crush a potato with the fork and rub it in the sauce. I delete Gordon’s e-mail.

2.

The morning after the forest fire, I caught the early bus to Denver. With smoke stacked up in the sky, I thought of how the fire had probably swept over the house, engulfed the outbuilding, incinerated the bodies where they’d dumped them. If anyone found human remains, they’d discover the burnt tent poles and tarps I’d seen Dr. Kriss and Rainer carry, and the bodies would seem like more of those nomads from the Tomahawk. Over the following weeks I kept a close eye on news of the wildfires, but the Ledger never reported fatalities. When I called Colorado’s Wildfire Resource Center, they said no, there had been no deaths near Arcade.

I had more than enough, now, to write the story, but as the bus neared Denver, I knew my reporting wasn’t over. Not quite. There was still one note with a question mark, the name I’d found in Lane Porter’s papers—A. Kriss of Everett, Washington.

I booked a flight to Seattle, but before I could fly, I had to calm the manager down at the car rental outlet. He couldn’t believe I’d lost another Jeep. As he dealt with me, he kept pawing through what little hair remained. I filled out a booklet of forms and he said, “This could get dicey,” as he got on the phone with regional headquarters.

I sat in the waiting room, where I could hear his submissive muttering, and called Gordon Stone to tell him I was fine. He said my package from Tampa was waiting for me at the office.

Finally the manager set the phone down and said, “You’re clear.”

“That’s good news.”

“Never rent another car in the state of Colorado.”

3.

I landed at Sea-Tac and was surprised to find I could rent an Acura Integra, no questions asked. My plan was to drive up to Everett, interview A. Kriss, then head back to the airport for a red-eye to New York.