I’d already told Viridian that I wanted the job at the writers’ conference. It was a no-brainer by now. I could get out of my mom’s for a week, give the two of us a break from each other. It was the slow season for landscaping work. I could point to a paid, productive use of my time. I might learn a thing or two. And Aaron could go right on missing me for a while longer. I would harden my heart and chart my own course.

“I’m so glad,” Viridian said. “You’ll want to talk to Tony. The job’s mostly running around and troubleshooting. Everything from changing light bulbs to babysitting lovelorn workshop students.” I must have looked alarmed because she laughed. “It’s mostly light bulbs. But there’s always some kind of psychodrama.”

Oscar was going to be there, too, as well as Sacha and Viridian. They were all teaching workshops and classes and giving readings. It was a big conference, with fifteen different poets, fiction and environmental writers on staff. Also visits by agents and editors who would be prospecting for promising new authors. And the conference attendees themselves, several dozen of them, manuscripts in hand, hoping to be instructed, validated, encouraged.

All this had been explained to me. The conference students came mostly from the Bay area, but a fair number from farther away. They were both young and old, hobbyists and earnest students. They came in all different levels of accomplishment, from well-schooled workshop veterans to the truly talentless. Each of them had purchased access to the staff, who were tasked with reading and commenting on their writing. There would be group critiques and discussion sessions. Someone, or more than one, was bound to cry.

Viridian arranged a phone call with Tony Presto. He sounded cheerful and distracted and said he’d heard such good things about me. I said I was sorry I hadn’t had the chance to meet him at Doug’s party, but either he didn’t hear me say this or he’d forgotten all about it, and he started in telling me what I needed to know. The conference site was an old resort compound near Pollock Pines. Rustic but comfortable. Sort of like, camping but not camping, if I knew what he meant. (I didn’t.) Right on a river. Beautiful place. The other assistant, Gil, had been there the last two years. Gil would show me the ropes. Perhaps Gil and I could meet in Sacramento and caravan up together? It would be best if Gil and I arrived there the night before, got everything nailed down and swept out. (Swept out?)

Finally, he mentioned the pay, which was decent, and I gave him my formal acceptance.