I had plans, too. Tony Presto sent me a long memo with different instructions and prohibitions. Many of these had to do with fire prevention. My mom got me some bear-strength pepper spray and paid for a set of new tires on my truck. I studied the promotional materials, the pictures of serene forest and mirroring water, of students and staff sitting in Adirondack chairs or on a rustic front porch, engaged in fellowship and literary communion. I read the profiles of the distinguished staff members, their many publications and awards. Soon I would be among them. I felt like I was going off to camp, a very high-toned and soulful camp.

The day before I left, I stopped by to see Viridian and Oscar, wanting to reassure myself that the crisis was past, and also so they could fill my ears with last-minute advice. Bear repellant, fire extinguishers, sunscreen, snakebite kit, flashlights—all of those might be useful, but how did you manage several dozen amateur and professional authors?

Viridian said, “Honestly, most of the students are lovely. Excited to be there, hard-working, eager to learn. And often very talented.”

Oscar said, “There are the occasional problem personalities. Remember Vikram?”

“Oh, Vikram. Poor man.”

“Poor? He was a stalker!”

I waited for them to tell me more. We were sitting in the shade of the backyard, enjoying the late-season garden, the tall verbena, the purple asters and yellow sunflowers, feather grass and maiden grass. The air was warm and indolent, and I would have been happy to spend every afternoon of my life there.

Viridian said to me, “Don’t worry. If there are any serious issues, Tony deals with them.”

“Who was Vikram?”

“He wrote poems about the other students in the workshop,” Oscar said, “and he insisted on reading them out loud. As erotica, they weren’t that bad. But clearly . . .”

“Inappropriate,” Viridian finished for him.

“What happened?”

“Wasn’t there some kind of messy . . .”

“Well. The important thing is, he won’t be there this year.” Viridian smiled encouragingly. She had lost weight, you could see it in her face. Somebody in her writers’ group had given her a necklace, a piece of malachite, green with black veins, held by a thin silver chain. She wore it over one of her white shirts. She looked beautiful and queenly, but it was as if a gear had ticked down a notch. Time passing, age accumulating. Or I might have been imagining it. Borrowing trouble, my mom called it.

Oscar said I would mainly have to do a lot of fetching and carrying and worry about things like stocking the break room with enough coffee and bagels. That might sound menial, but it was very, very important. I promised I’d be on top of it.