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to walk several blocks to catch the first of two buses, transfer to the second bus, and hike another quarter of a mile to the top of the hill. It would take at least forty-five minutes to get there. She had just enough time to pack her small inventory of possessions, settle her account with the good people of the Young Women's Christian Association, and be on her way. She grabbed her backpack and a small cardboard box from under her cot. Into the backpack went:
    1 . Clothes: functional, tasteful, casual; a stage manager's wardrobe, which meant nothing too feminine or suggestive—Wanda had learned long ago that women of a small build, if they want to command any kind of authority, can't look too girly—but nothing too slouchy either. Pants and shirts, slightly tailored. Jeans, tees, and sweats for Mondays off. A black dress for opening nights. No jewelry.
    2. Shoes: a pair of hiking boots, a pair of tennis shoes, and a pair of really brazen, really expensive fuck-me pumps to go with the opening night dress. Once in a while it was okay to look girly.
    Into the cardboard box went:
    1 . Papers: Wanda's resumes, the city map, the bus schedules, legal papers, bank statements, letters of recommendation, old journals,
The French press coffeemaker and two pounds of French roast,
A small framed black-and-white photograph of a woman bowling, and
A postcard featuring a sunset view of Mount Rainier and the Seattle skyline—"As seen from Kerry Park on Queen Anne Hill, Seattle is always beautiful."—that had been mailed a little over two months ago. It was addressed to Wanda in care of her Chicago relatives and had been forwarded to Wanda's New York address by her aunt Maureen. Wanda had received the postcard one month after Peter left.
    Aunt Maureen routinely forwarded Wanda's mail. There was no special mention of the postcard in Maureen's accompanying letter, and Wanda almost didn't find it; it was squeezed between a credit card solicitation and Wanda's Northwestern University alumnae magazine.
    Even though the postcard bore no message or return address, and the sender had obviously made an effort to disguise his handwriting, Wanda knew it was from Peter.
    Within two days, she had given up the loft and located someone who needed a New York-to-Seattle drive-away—a nice Manhattan programmer who'd been hired by Microsoft. She loaded her backpack and cardboard box into the backseat. She clipped the postcard to the visor and consulted her cross-country map: I-80 west and turn right at Cheyenne. What could be simpler?
    At first, she was confident. It was so like Peter—to tell her in this indirect way where he was, even though he said he wanted to be alone. To express his need for her without words. To m ake no overt demands. He might not even know why he sent the postcard, Wanda thought, serenely navigating Interstate 80 as it caressed the Appalachian Mountains. He might not realize how much he needs me. He probably still thinks he wants to be alone. He's probably that delusional.
    She inched through traffic jams and construction slowdowns in Illinois, not stopping in Chicago to see her relatives. They weren't expecting her; and besides, there wasn't enough time.
    Maybe he thinks he's doing me a favor by leaving me. Maybe he worries that loving him is too hard. Doesn't he thin k I know he's troubled? Doesn't he thin k I’ve taken that into consideration? I've had my eyes open. I'm no fool. I can take it.
    She drove the length of the Nebraska panhandle without seeing another living soul. She started chewing her fingernails and developed a hair-pulling habit.
    On the other hand, maybe he really does want to be alone. Maybe he doesn’t want to be found.
    She drank truck stop coffee. She listened to CDs of Thelonious Monk, Charlie Parker, Earl Hines, Rassan Roland Kirk.
    Fuck, she thought by the time she crossed the Rockies , I have no idea what he's thinking.
    But it was too late to turn back. After Wanda merged onto I-90, she drove the