“A school,” she said, surprising herself—just a little—with the confidence and brevity of her answer. Just a month ago she would have hesitated before launching into the whole complicated story: Eric, Mark, Frances, her own writing and teaching career. She found her keys and unlocked the door. “Over here,” she said, walking with her chairs to the far side of the room.

“Right on,” he said, following her. “Education is the most important thing in the world. They can’t take your education away from you, that’s what I tell my son.”

Marianne surveyed the room, took in its fresh-paint-and-paper smell, its stocked shelves, its gleaming new windows. Its stack of slightly used, suitable-for-a-wedding-venue chairs. Its partial gulf view. Its wood-veneer podium and mounted wireless microphone.

“The most important thing,” he repeated. “I’m in school myself. Police academy. Six more weeks!” Just mentioning school—its promise of a different, better life—had brightened the man, who started back for another armload. Marianne began arranging the chairs, making two neat columns that faced the podium.

“You’re a teacher?” he asked when he returned.

“No,” she said, sitting down in a chair she’d just unfolded, leaning back. “I’m in charge.”

Part

Two

4

Donald Goldston, known to his fans as Davonte Gold, settled into his room at a little after one o’clock on an overcast Sunday in March. Even when he was still an opening act, he’d stayed in nicer places than this, a small room with badly patched wall cracks, mismatched wood-veneer furniture, and a window that looked out over some dusty bushes. Craning his neck, he could barely see the water. One of the lamps didn’t work, and the dresser drawers had to be yanked open, revealing pyramidal mounds of fine wood shavings that Davonte gathered with a tissue. What made those little mounds? Was it termites? Could termites eat your clothes? Those were some questions Davonte had never had to ask himself before.

It seemed like only yesterday he had a whole suite of rooms at the Bellagio in Vegas, with a view of the dancing fountains. He’d headlined for a week, then gone on to Los Angeles, San Diego, then back to Vegas and up to Oakland. Along with the band, the sound technician, the lighting people, the roadies, and the dancing girls, he’d traveled with a posse that included a personal trainer, a bodyguard, a personal assistant, and his best friend since third grade, Avis Conway, who’d signed onto the payroll after receiving a dishonorable discharge from the Coast Guard. How fucking hard was it to stay in the Coast Guard? Davonte still wanted to know. Back then there were very few questions that Davonte didn’t have answers for—or people ready to answer them.