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Astonishingly, no one followed me.
    Later, maybe a half mile down the road, I found my hands clenched into fists. I kept walking, it was pitch-black, and I had no idea where I was, but had a vague idea of getting to the nearest house and calling the police. And then I saw headlights. I stuck out my thumb, and a truck with two sixteen-year-old kids from Ben Lomond stopped.
    One of them had only that day gotten his driving license and they were both pumped up like hell on excitement. They were on their way into Santa Cruz to get drunk and tattooed to celebrate.
    I said, I’m game, and I was. I figured I couldn’t get a bus back to Palo Alto until the next morning anyway.
    After downing a bunch of tequila shots in a campus bar, we somehow got to a twenty-four-hour tattoo parlor on Ocean. I stumbled into a chair and said Do your worst. Give me the biggest meanest thing you have.
    So he started in. It took him all night. He kept popping pills to stay awake, which should have worried me, but it didn’t. The pain was almost unbearable, but the booze helped and when I got home and saw my lovely snake it was worth every acid-laced sting.
    I aced my finals that week and, my arm throbbing, took a red-eye back to Chicago. You took one look at my arm and prescribed a course of antibiotics, but you never said anything about my snake. Whether you liked it or not. Until after you got sick.
    Then you began complimenting me on it. Telling me not to cover it up. Encouraging me to wear sleeveless tops. I think at this point you’re as proud of it as I am. Our joint emblem: Don’t Tread on Me.

    From my notebook. My handwriting:
    Two men and a woman were here today. Detectives. I must write it down, Magdalena says, I must keep my head clear. Know what I’ve said. Think straight.
    The men were clumsy and heavy, perched awkwardly on my kitchen chairs. The woman was one of them: coarse, almost, but with a more alert, intelligent face. The two men deferred to her. She mostly listened, putting in a word now and then. The men took turns asking questions.
    Tell us about your relationship with the deceased.
    What deceased? Who died?
    Amanda O’Toole. Everyone says you were very close.
    Amanda? Dead? Nonsense. She was here, just this morning, full of schemes for a new neighborhood petition. Something against excessive dog barking, about imposing sanctions and fines.
    Let me rephrase the question. What is your relationship with Mrs. O’Toole?
    She is my friend.
    But one of your neighbors— the man who was talking consulted his notebook— said you had a loud argument on February fifteen. The day after Valentine’s Day, around two PM , in her house.
    Magdalena broke in. They were always fighting. They were that close. Like sisters. You know how family is.
    Please, ma’am. Let Dr. White answer. What was that particular argument about?
    What argument? I asked. It is a bad day, I can’t concentrate. This morning Magdalena put a red and white stick in my hand at the bathroom sink. Toothbrush, she said, but the word meant nothing. I came to later at the kitchen table with a half-eaten stick of butter in front of me. Then I had another fade-out and a fade-in. I found myself sitting in the same place, but now with a glass half full of an orange liquid on the table in front of me, a pile of multicolored pills. What is this? I asked Magdalena, pointing. The colors were wrong. The bright liquid and the small hard round bursts of blue, magenta, buttercup. Poison. I would not be fooled. Was not fooled. Flushed it all down the toilet when Magdalena was not looking.
    But back to the main point:
    The argument you had with Mrs. O’Toole in mid-February, the man repeated, somewhat impatiently.
    Can’t you see that she doesn’t remember? asked Magdalena.
    Convenient, said the other man. He looked at the first man and raised his eyebrow. Coconspirators.
    She’s not a well woman, said Magdalena. You know this.