I was so involved in these disjointed thoughts, flitting in and out of my consciousness like the chirruping of birds, that it was not until I came out from behind a dense bank of oleander that I saw, to my surprise, that tucked behind the windshield wiper of every car in the parking lot was a small orange piece of paper.

I stopped short. It is some kind of advertisement, or notice about parking, I told myself, but when I advanced warily upon my own vehicle, I saw that it was neither of those things, but something else, the half sheet filled with cramped, over-xeroxed handwriting. It was too dark outside to read it properly. I freed it, opened the car door, and flicked on the overhead light. I still had some idea that it was a communication from the hotel, but a moment’s reading disabused me of that. At the top of the page, in block letters, appeared what seemed to be the “title” of the piece—STOP SITES OF GENOCIDE FROM BECOMING TOURIST ATTRACTIONS SHAME on our university for this dirty deal! The wind of freedom blows but for whom, Mr President— I stopped reading there, although it went on, the script growing more crowded and illegible with each line.

On the other side was a map of California in grainy black outline. All along the coast, angry red Xes had been marked. This is an odd piece of paper, I thought, it was not meant for me. I looked toward the entrance of the hotel, and I could see, to my surprise, through the gap in the oleander, that the bellhop and the dark-haired young man were still standing there, framed by the doorway.

From this distance, I told myself, there was a limit to what they could actually see, there must be. The parking lot, I saw with a quick glance, was deserted. With one hand I rolled down the window, and with the other I crumpled the little orange sheet of paper into a ball, then dropped it discreetly to the ground outside. Whatever that was, I thought, some crackpot’s personal crusade, it did not concern me. There was a limit to how many bizarre events a person could take an interest in over the span of one evening.

6

I woke the next morning in my own bed, with the feeling that the explainable world was somehow slipping from my grasp. Bleak, gray morning light filled the room, and faintly I could hear the sound of birds. How—I thought—how could that all have happened? I turned over on my side to face the wall. What a remarkable series of events; I could barely believe in them.