“ . . . New York Times Review of Books? I don’t know whether to shit or go blind.”

There were people to talk to, people who needed flashlight batteries, toilet paper, Pepto Bismol. Literary validation, transactional therapy, emotional support animals. I did what I could, then slipped away to bed.

My phone had been so useless, I’d been leaving it in my room. Now I checked it, and was startled to see a text from Aaron: ok so don’t answer my calls i get it but this can’t go on forever.

Of course I tried to call, of course I couldn’t get through. I tried texting and I kept trying, and the messages piled up in a heap. not delivered. not delivered. not delivered.

Any sleep I managed was spotty. In the morning, early, I tried calling again, no luck. I panicked, trying to remember the last time we’d talked, and did Aaron even know I was here and that his calls weren’t reaching me? He was right, things couldn’t go on forever like this, with the two of us on hold, with me living a separate life from his. I hadn’t wanted to jump one way or the other, I still didn’t. I kept putting it off and he was tired of it, and I was tired of his resentment.

The sun wasn’t quite up yet, the woods were still cold and misty when I left the lodge, being as quiet as I could, and walked along the damp grass to the conference center. It was kept locked but I had keys, and a key to the office as well. I sat down beneath the stuffed hawk and picked up the phone. Thank God there was a dial tone. I punched in Aaron’s number and waited while the line clicked and went blank and finally rang through.

I got his voice mail. That figured. He always silenced his phone while he was asleep, and even if he was awake, which was doubtful, he wouldn’t recognize the number. At least I’d gotten this far. I waited for his familiar prompt: “Let’s talk!” And then the beep.

“Hi, Aaron? It’s me, I’m sorry, I haven’t gotten any calls since Saturday, I’m in El Dorado National Forest, I thought I told you, and my phone is crap. Anyway—”

Anyway what? He didn’t want to hear any more of me telling him how I’d been on my voyage of discovery, how I’d met people he didn’t know, talked about things he’d never heard of. “I want to tell you everything I’ve been doing, because I want you to be part of it. And I want to hear what you’ve been doing, and, I don’t know what happens after that. I’ll be back Friday night.” I waited a beat. “I love you,” I said, and then I hung up.