Kyla arrives on an evening flight from Amsterdam. She sees the lights as she lands and tells me later taht of all the cities she’s been to, L.A. promises everything and delivers nothing.

“A star is born every day, yes, maybe, but a dream dies too, millions of them,” she says, “And nobody makes a book or movie about that. Maybe you should, Sean?”

Kyla wakes up at my place on top of Laurel Canyon. I am the highest resient of Los Angeles, up on a saddle between the hills that separate Beverly Hills and Hollywood. There is an owl in the tree above my deck, and hummingbirds are at war at the bird feeder outside the room.

She is wearing a yellow top. I make a note of it and remind myself to look for yellow and orange locations. Moab, Taos, Death Valley. A route forms in my head.