The food service crew arrived with great quantities of organic produce and cruelty-free meats. Gil and I helped with that as well. The crew were all Mexican and I went up in Gil’s estimation because I could speak to them in Spanish and they gave us ice cream.

Then Gil went down to the gate to let people in and direct traffic. I was set up at a table just inside the lodge entrance, checking off the arrivals and distributing maps and schedules.

Most conference attendees were told to meet up in downtown Pollock Pines, where a kind of super van transported them up to the resort. The idea, I was told, was to minimize the fire risks of catalytic converters passing over dry grass. The first vanload and their luggage arrived and milled around me, excited, chattering, needing a bathroom, allergy medicine, Wi-Fi passwords, and a good deal more. Another van arrived and then another, as I eased one group out to find their lodgings so I could deal with the next one. They were a mix of ages, more middle-aged than young, more women than men. As I was to do all week, I overheard bits and pieces of conversations:

“You could submit it to Wallop. They’re doing a whole issue on obsession.”

“. . . mostly into flash fiction.”

“Not the kind of editor you bring home to mother.”

“Poisonous plants as a homoerotic subtext. Like ‘Rappaccini’s Daughter.’”

One of the younger men lingered by my table.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” He had dark curly hair and glasses and a serious face. He could have been anybody. “No, sorry,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. I was tired of talking and I needed a break before the next batch of happy campers.

“I met you at Viridian’s reading. College of Marin.”

“Oh my God, that’s right. I’m sorry, you’re—”

“Matt.”

“Matt, sure. I’m—”

“Carla.”

I did remember his slightly pissy air of grievance, as if I’d broken some promise I didn’t remember making. He said, “What are you doing here?”

“Working.”

“Yeah, but how did that happen?” Meaning, how did a person of no particular distinction end up in a position of responsibility? You could get tired of that attitude.

“Sorry,” I said, pointing to the next van pulling up outside, “can’t talk right now.”

He took off. It was so weird, thinking back to that night, not so very long ago, and realizing how much had changed, how I’d landed in the middle of nowhere, which was still a pretty interesting place to be.