He said, “I have a chance to come through New York before shipping out.”

“When?”

But I’d be in Arcade. I was a little drunk and would’ve loved to fuck, if he could somehow materialize in my apartment that very moment, and then dematerialize. But I had to tell him it was really too bad, I’d be on a reporting trip.

“Damn,” he said, “missed connection. I feel like I owe you one.”

“You don’t.”

Now he sounded like he wanted to get off the phone, so I quickly asked about Floella. “I think about her sometimes,” I said, and ripped the cap off a pen with my teeth.

“Funny you should ask,” said Roland. “I tried checking up on her while I’m here, but I think she’s finally out of my life for good. No one in the Tomahawk has a clue where she’s at. I stopped by the hospital, thinking maybe something had gone wrong, you know, but they told me she’d been discharged back in January.”

“What do you think happened?”

“My guess? She probably took off for Vegas. That’s where she belongs, anyway. But who gives a shit. I’m just glad I don’t have to deal with her anymore.”

When we said goodbye, I told Roland to look after himself.

He laughed and said, “Thanks, Whitney. And good luck, wherever you’re headed.”

It’s difficult to reconstruct now, how easy everyone said it would be. That was the whole point of Iraq—high technology, precision strikes—but I’ve searched all over social media for Roland, and never found a trace.

10.

The day before my flight to Denver, I paid a last visit to the Donut Shop. I needed a coffee, bad. I’d had another spoiled sleep, this time waking on my Persian rug, freezing, no idea how I got there.

The place was packed. Tomorrow they’d close for good. There weren’t any coconut donuts left and I couldn’t get a seat. I didn’t recognize these customers, but everyone seemed to know each other, and they were much more familiar with the staff than I’d ever been. Maybe they were the morning crowd.

I stood in the corner with my coffee and plain donut, eavesdropping.

“There’s just no way to keep up selling donuts,” someone offered.

“Not unless someone’s going to pay five or six bucks each.”

Everyone laughed and said dream on.

“I voted for the guy, but what the fuck.”

“We got yuppies out the ass.”

“Yuppies were twenty years ago. There’s no name for these people.”

“Schmucks.”

It didn’t escape me that I was one of the schmucks. My bona fides in the neighborhood went back only a couple years, and I had enough money that, should the mood somehow strike, I could afford a six-dollar donut.