By Wednesday it felt like the conference had lasted at least five years. Nervous energy alternated with nervous exhaustion. Things kept happening. Tomas Rasz’s workshop rebelled when he told them that the day’s session would consist of three hours of silent meditation. Tony was forced to intervene. Someone thought they smelled smoke. It turned out to be a false alarm, but not before we all had to follow the fire drill protocol and assemble in the parking lot in our hard-soled shoes, carrying wet towels. Two of the naturalists formalized their relationship by getting engaged during the evening drum circle. And in between these events, there were writers talking, writers writing, writers talking about writing, a heady mix of brilliance, argument, inspiration, and ego.

Doug McGregor had not yet arrived, but a platoon of other editors and agents had been deployed, and they gave helpful talks and presided over manuscript conferences. Everybody wanted tips from the pros, everybody wanted their first big break. I understood this, even if it was easy to be skeptical of their individual strivings, their talent, their certain unfortunate personal qualities. They wanted soul to clap its hands and sing, no matter how much throat-clearing and croaking was involved in the effort. And they wanted to be heard. They wanted to be loved, as they had loved the great writers, as I loved them myself.

And say the big break came, or say it never did, say you launched yourself full speed into the enterprise of writing. Would it matter, finally, that only some small portion of the earth’s people had ever heard of you or your work? No, you told yourself. Because there would still be the singing. There would still be the love.

I didn’t get any more calls from Aaron. After lunch I got in my truck and drove down to Pollock Pines where there was better cell reception. There weren’t any messages. I thought about calling him, then I put the phone away and drove back to the conference. Either he missed me or he didn’t, either he still wanted me or he didn’t, and then there was the whole problematic question of whether I still wanted him. Of course, it was possible that he was being literal-minded, being an annoying man, and since I’d said my phone wasn’t working, he wasn’t going to bother trying anymore. I’d said I’d be back Friday night. I shouldn’t have been upset that he took me at my word and didn’t call, but I was.

There was a text from a number I didn’t recognize at first. how about dinner some time when you get back. A New York number. Boone. He must have gotten my number from Doug.