Waiting for her at his place, he felt suspended, counting the minutes. He woke early, lingering in bed, remembering what they’d done, fantasizing what they’d do next. He never knew when she’d arrive or whether she’d make it at all. He had no idea what excuses she gave for her absences and he didn’t care to ask. Without warning, she’d knock on the door at the bottom of the stairs. At the top there was a second door, and by the time he opened it, she’d be taking the stairs two at a time. She’d fling herself at him, laughing and out of breath. They’d hole up in his room, making love at a frantic pace, all noise and sweat. She taught him about pleasure and excess, all the appetites of the flesh. Between bouts of sex they’d share a joint. His studio was a haze of weed and cigarette smoke. At intervals they’d trail down the stairs, often naked, and wander into the main house, where they raided Lionel’s wine cellar, working their way through his high-end Chardonnay. Dope made them hungry and they devoured everything in sight, most of it junk since Jon didn’t have the money to buy much else. Doughnuts, chips, candy bars, cookies, peanut butter and crackers—their makeshift feasts as intense as the sex.

In order to make time for the long runs he loved, he dragged himself out of bed at 8:00. His weight lifting was halfhearted and many days he skipped. He saw Destiny on random afternoons and after she left, he’d nap, forage for dinner, and then sit down at his desk, which he usually reached by 9:00. He worked into the wee hours, shorting himself on sleep. There was no other way around it. The dope, fatigue, and alcohol took their toll, fogging his brain and breaking up his concentration. This was a problem when Friday rolled around and Mr. Snow was expecting his work. The second week, his deadline came up on him before he knew it, and he was forced to pull an all-nighter, writing feverishly until the sky turned light.

He’d come up with a cool idea about a kid who ran with a pack of wild dogs; this in the Deep South—Georgia, Alabama, someplace like that. He pictured the kid living under the porch of a ramshackle shotgun house, feasting on scraps. Jon could smell the dirt and the animal scent of the boy. He wrote about the hot summer nights when the wind was still and the dogs howled from afar, calling to the kid. He didn’t have a clue where he was going with the story, but he made a good start, fifteen double-spaced pages.