From that hot night in Sacramento in 1973 to around the end of 1977, I don't remember a single thing. Nothing. I've blanked it all out. I must have quit my job and must have gone up to Oregon again. Wendy sent me a piece of red construction paper with tiny blue cut out hearts pasted onto it for Valentine's Day one of those years, but I only know that because I still have the sucker. Melanie didn't send me anything. Not a word. Nothing. She was like that. The only thing that's stuck in my mind of those four years is a dull blank ache. Somewhere during that time, based solely on an old airline ticket and the most rudimentary of precognitive recollections, I must have flown to Colorado to rescue Ginny from a rogue element of Elizabeth Clare Prophet's people. There had been some sort of power struggle. They were after her. Ginny was hiding out. She needed to be rescued. We drove her car through blizzards in Wyoming. According to the old airline ticket, it was close to Christmas. Ginny was probably just nuts again. I didn't care. My heart belonged to Melanie. She was all I ever thought about. I thought about her all the time. I was obsessed. When we got to San Francisco, Ginny dropped me at the airport. I went back up to Oregon. She cried. I didn't give a fuck.

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