Four days later, LA is huge and hot and dirty. In front of the bus station, I show Grimshaw’s address to a cab driver, who asks me how much money I have. He takes all of it and brings me to a little white bungalow with an orange-tiled roof and closed green shutters and a chain-link fence drawn tight around a narrow collar of asphalt. The door is on the right-hand side of the house, with a stoop and a walkway that leads to the gate where I’m standing. The gold Corvette sits next to it in the driveway. It now has a California vanity plate that reads VIPER. I’m here. There’s a buzzer on the gate. I push the button and hear it ring inside. Nothing happens, so I ring again. After a minute, the door opens and my friend Melody Grimshaw comes out and stands, shielding her eyes against the strong sunlight. She’s in a white T-shirt that comes down almost to her knees. She closes the door behind her and drifts down the little concrete walkway and stops on the other side of the gate. She hasn’t put her makeup on yet, so there are those white eyelashes, which nobody has seen since sixth grade. She touches my hand on the metal post, like she’s making sure it’s real. I hold my hand up, and our fingers lace together. We stand there together on either side of the gate, not saying anything. When you haven’t seen someone in a long time that you used to see every day, it’s a lot like seeing the ghost of the person you used to know. You act like it’s nothing, like you see ghosts all the time, like all you see are ghosts. We stand there like that and watch a kid across the street bouncing a basketball off the side of his building. Chained to a stop sign there’s a bicycle with no tires or handlebars that looks like it’s been there for a while.

“It’s funny to see palm trees, isn’t it?” she says.

“It is. It must make you feel like you’re in a movie.”

“It kinda does.” We fill up the awkwardness with small talk. “How long did it take you to get here?” she asks.

“About four months.”

“Shut up.”

“I was in Missouri for three weeks. I thought I died and went to hell.”

“Missouri is nothing. You should see Nebraska.”

“Missouri is literally ten times the size of Nebraska.”

“No, it’s not!”

“In Texas, this guy fell asleep on me and the brim of his cowboy hat rubbed a hole in my neck. Look.”

“That’s the worst cover story for a hickey I ever heard. I bet Tim Marhaver gave it to you.”