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Oh Jesus fuck it’s hot.

Amelia June Esparse woke to a menagerie of stifling and painful sensations: neck at a 30º bend, sideways; face pressed against a blue synthetic headrest, corduroy, little lines digging into her cheek, the headrest somehow both too scratchy and too caved-in to be a proper pillow; junction between thigh and ass caught on the steel wire, with its federal blue PVC coating peeling off in places, which runs around the driver’s seat of the old truck; and—shockingly sweltering air. She noticed, first after the heat, that her spine was drooping as well, into the void a car seat makes when it is leaned back all the way that it can, but is still not, of course, completely straight, or any shape fitting to be a bed. She un-cricked her spine with an ease no twenty-two-year-old can imagine being as good as it will ever be–that life from here on out will be made up of a series of increasingly difficult un-crickenings–and took stock of her surroundings.

Driven by instinct, Amelia now swings a left arm over backwards to hook the little beige plastic inside-handle, grabs the window crank by accident, succeeds in nabbing the latch, and gives it a yank. With the first sign of a gap, cool air rushes in and coats her back, which is glued, straight through the cotton shirt, to her polyester jacket, and she rolls right out of the Ford truck and onto her feet.

For a moment she feels the blessed, cool, wet Pacific-mountain air and stares blankly at the sun through the pine forest, dumbstruck, like a pilgrim arriving at the shroud. She remembers where she is and shakes awake at last.

Ohmygoodness I actually fell asleep in here?

Amelia snaps to look up at the house–no, dummy, it’s morning, you can’t see if she’s in there–then, wildly, back to the gravel two-car lot where she stands. No other car. Not the Plymouth, that is–Amelia, here, of course, happy to show off to herself that she knows Dr. Lindon’s usual getabout—so-ooo—

She’s not back. Of course not. I mean it’s not like she’s just been ignoring me this whole time.

For two weeks, Amelia had been leaving increasingly urgent voicemails–a tasteful amount, four, that is, and spaced apart just enough to convey professionalism, yet urgency. This is only natural, right? I mean who else can help me?

I need that damn recommendation letter.

But this is good!, Amelia thinks. I can, uhh, I can do detective work. It is… 7:32, the watch says. Nobody’s here; I came all this way.

She whirls around, seeking inspiration, and finds Mt. Rainier standing sentinel as ever, taking up a significant chunk of the southern horizon. Professor…

Except just then, Amelia realizes she ate what little food she brought with her last night. And it’s an hour and a half hike back to Greenwater… or maybe less now that it’s downhill… So-oooh—

She’s going to need to decide whether to leave now or uh, break in? And spend the whole day looking through all of Dr. Lindon’s personal belongings, because she is lost and all, you know, and this could be serious–I mean, you don’t just leave your students hanging like that. Unless there’s like, a good reason, or a bad reason, I suppose.

The morning dew is already burning off, and Amelia’s throat is dry.

~

The day before, at 2:42 PM, Amelia left her parents’ house in central Tacoma and took the city bus, then the Seattle-Tacoma Express, then the Metro to Enumclaw, at which point she phones a cab for the remainder of the journey. That afternoon, she had been pacing in her childhood bedroom, making herself sick with anxiety, looking at the calendar, or nibbling her nails, or going over the same few set of data points ad infinitum:

1) Applications for Boulder and Austin need to be postmarked by December 1st. Which means I’m going to need to schedule using Mom’s typewriter as soon as the summer is over, in like early September, because there is no way I’m starting before Carrie’s party, and if I put it off til November she won’t even want me touching the machine while she’s grading Thanksgiving break papers…

2) How long does it take to write a letter of recommendation? Maybe she’s like, reviewing my past work? I’ve still got a month and a half; maybe she’s just gonna whip it out in one night this Fall, like, ta-dah!

3) Okay she’s not out of town, or at least the administration doesn’t report her going on leave. I know she’s from Canada but it’s not like they don’t have phones across the border.

4) I need to calm down. I’m sure Dr. Lindon is very busy. She wouldn’t leave me hanging. But that could mean something happened to her. And I mean like, it’s none of my business, but—

5) I NEED THAT LETTER OF RECOMMENDATION.

And so on. Man, I could use–just a bump right now would really help me focus. I can’t imagine why Susan would use pot right now instead–you need an upper at times like this. What would Mom think if I asked for a cup of Folgers? “It’s too late for caffeine, Amelia, you know that; it’s 2:30 PM, do you want to stay up all night?”

Mhrmm. Amelia leaves an indent across her forehead, stops, forgets to breathe for a few seconds, and sinks her knees to the ratty beige-grey-brown-white carpet.

Can Jesus help me right now?–looking plaintively to the popcorn ceiling. I’d like to give the big man a talking to, honestly.

(About something vague and angsty, which to Amelia feels much more specific and real than the reader may attest, were we to condense her thoughts in this moment and review them.)

No, I’ve just got to go. She shakes her head to herself. I’m just going to trek out there. There’s time before sunset, even out in the mountains.

(Sunset? Amelia’s prefrontal cortex has no time for bullshit concerns, like the minutiae of this plan, caught as she is between the rock of goals, responsibility, becoming a respected gravitational physicist and, in such course, saying goodbye to the hometown she always hated, but now, for some reason, can’t wait to tell saccharine tales about to labmates in Boulder.)

Amelia grabbed: Jacket, Sony Discman, backpack, hiking boots, $60 from the stash. And was on her way.

~

Ms. Esparse, the recent recipient of a bachelors in physics, by the authority of the University of Puget Sound¹, has walked around the perimeter of Lindon’s treehouse-house three times now. We’ve got—front gate, and its surrounding fence; shed in the back, not locked; dog gravestone; pipes coming from the house above, with their own fence.

And to think she never told us about this place–what is she, loaded? I mean, who even builds some shit like this?

(Is it even legal to build in these trees?)

Okay, I–claps hands–am thirsty, so I don’t really think I can be held liable if I break that padlock off the front gate, somehow. And it’s not breaking and entering if I just look in the shed and see if there’s some—

Bolt cutters! Dr. Lindon, this is not a particularly secure place to be keeping these. I mean, you are out here in the middle of nowhere,

(But in that case why lock the gate?)

And so, within moments, we find Amelia standing, triumphant, with stout bolt cutters at the ready, the puny, cleaved steel lock dashed before her. She swings open the gate and makes her way up the three flights of open-air, fenced-in corrugated steel stairs, with all the seriousness of an agent in a spy thriller.

¹Which did not have a respectable science program until 1967, when the department was moved from Howarth to the brand-new Thompson Hall, and then well, by 1994, Thompson was once again looking a bit rustic; and since Harned Hall, not to be confused with Howarth, folks, was put up in ‘06, and repairs to Thompson completed in 2008—Well, UPS has quite a fine liberal arts science program once again, but the point is, they were at a bit of a slump in the early 90s when Amelia attended, so don’t tell her.