She often imagined men jerking off in some nearby bathroom. Sometimes she would get an urge to tell them that, her intellect notwithstanding, it didn’t bother her that they masturbated. Yet she was tired of the haggle for respect, so when it was only her third day in LA, she skipped the conference sessions and called Pete and Anthony. They became giddy, as only they could. The palm trees swayed, and now she’s at the hotel, looking down on Pershing Square. They’d built a tower there and placed a Christmas ornament up at the top. It’s a curious tower, pointless, she thinks, and that morning, before the restlessness returned, she walked slowly around downtown. “Hey lady, be safe!” shouted one of the ill, and she really isn’t—safe that is. But perhaps if she’d been Canadian. It’s safer in Canada than most places. Maybe it’s the vast landscapes, the distances. Maybe it’s the gun laws, Newfoundland, and the figure skaters. She was born in Vojens, and her mother was treasurer of the hockey club. She was also responsible for the Christmas raffle. Sometimes hockey-playing boys from other countries would stay with them. Once between Christmas and New Year’s they hosted two brothers from Toronto. They could only speak English, but back then she didn’t dare to. She can remember the combination of the Christmas tree and their longish dark hair in the large living room. And she can remember that the one brother had to borrow some socks in order to sleep. These days she thinks of him often, when she herself is going to sleep. She has a​ 68pair of socks on right now. It’s ninety-five degrees outside, but operating the air conditioner is a challenge: “Hey girl, are you European?”

“No, Canadian,” she’ll say if they should ask her again the next time she ventures out. And it’s not unlikely. After less than a week downtown, she can already distinguish one homeless person from the next. She recognizes them by their walks, their haunts, the particular ways they protect themselves from the world: the big woolen hats, the winter jackets, the out-of-place carry-on luggage, and beneath the Christmas ornament in Pershing Square she saw a woman with a top hat and floral umbrella direct an invisible drum corps with such battered grace, she had half a mind to follow. Perhaps if she’d been younger, and Anthony and Pete had been there, she thinks, slowly sitting up in bed. They came and got her the other evening. Threw their arms around her and demanded a guided tour of the hotel. When she confided that she felt heavy, Pete squeezed her shoulder, while Anthony laughed—“Come on girl, you’re in LA”—and then they went out into the stifling heat together.