She doesn’t want to take any others by surprise; it might make them remember her. When the next man arrives at her table and says, “Hi. You alone?”—it isn’t more than five minutes later—she gives him a grim look and says, “I’m waiting for my husband. He’s a police officer.”

“Lucky for him. Too bad for me.” The man goes away, good-natured, taking it in stride, searching with bright eyes for his next opportunity.

That one too, she thinks. Nice guy. For all you know all he wants is a friendly smile and a few minutes’ conversation.

Dear God. I’ve always been such a nice person. I’ve always loved stray puppies—I’ve always been kind to my friends and generous to my enemies and trusting to strangers.

Is it possible to wake up one morning and make a snap decision that’s going to change the rest of your life—and truly become a different person: someone you’d have hated?

There’s got to be room for humanity. You can’t just let yourself shrivel up into a suspicious crone.

And yet.…

You’ve got to think about Ellen. For her sake you can’t trust anyone at all.

Let the poor sons of bitches find other girls to talk to. Right now you just can’t afford the exposure.

Alone at the coffee shop table she fills in the Social Security application—the second one: Dorothy Holder’s. Yesterday she stopped in an instant-printing shop and had Dorothy’s birth certificate photocopied. She encloses the copy with the application and lists her mailing address as that of the mail-forwarding service.

She tries to make Dorothy’s signature different from Jennifer’s: bigger, rounder, heavier. She’s practiced signing Jennifer C. Hartman night after night in a crabbed hand that is not at all like her usual flowing script.

She drops the application into a mail slot and a quarter into the one-armed bandit. It doesn’t pay off and she goes back to her motel. It is six o’clock: a bit early for dinner and she isn’t hungry anyway. She lies down on the bed, just to relax for a few minutes; maybe she’ll go in the swimming pool in a little while to cool off, and then tackle some of the home study program Charlie Reid gave her—instruments, controls, regulations.…

When she awakens it is past midnight and she sits up feeling sour and hung over. Exhaustion, she thinks. It isn’t the hard work of it all; it’s the strain—the tension of knowing she needs to make only one misstep and it all will be useless and they’ll come down on her like a falling safe.

Desperately tired, she can’t get back to sleep.

It occurs to her at some point in the endless drag of the night that never before has she known how dreadful it is to be truly alone. It’s all a blank slate now: no past, no friends—not even the prospect of friends. Nobody at all.

Ellen, she thinks.

But Ellen can’t help her fend off the terror; not now.

She opens Charlie Reid’s spiral-bound primer and tries to memorize the rules of flying.

13 In the morning she sells the car for $800 cash on a small used-car lot two blocks from her motel. The dealer, a man with a sunburned bald head and an expression of wry bemusement, must be accustomed to buying cars for cash: he’s probably seen a hundred examples of the hopefuls who arrive in Las Vegas in their $20,000 Cadillacs and depart a few days later in $100,000 buses. Those big-spending high rollers must have their mundane $100 counterparts and this is precisely the impression she wants to leave: she wants to differ in no way from the multitude.

According to the radio on the bald man’s desk the official temperature is 108° Fahrenheit—and it isn’t even eleven o’clock yet. The dealer sees her expression and says, “Wait till August, you want real heat.”

When she signs the bill of sale she has to show identification; that is why she’s saved the old driver’s license. He glances at it, comparing signatures, but he’ll forget her name as soon as she leaves the shack and he files the papers away.

She is curious whether he feels much pain in his red burned scalp but she doesn’t ask; she takes the cash and walks away, squinting behind her sunglasses.

Back in the air-conditioned motel she plucks the blouse away from her fried skin and makes a little ceremony out of burning the old driver’s license and flushing the ashes away.

Nothing left of the old life now except a ring of keys.

At the cheap blond desk she begins to make a list on motel stationery: a list of all the things she knows about herself. It isn’t the first time she’s done it. The ostensible purpose is to check off the items she’s changed and to see what remains to be done. The actual purpose is to keep from going insane.

At one of those political dinner parties last year a guest was the private detective whose specialty is skip-tracing. “Raymond Q. Seale,” his business card announces, and if you ask him what the Q stands for he replies, “Questing,” with an irritating smugness: a self-important little man slicked up in a tight suit. Phony smile and the sleazy artful manner of a cynic who insists that the world lives at his own gutter level. But she listened to him with interest; the pressures on her had kept increasing and by then she’d already begun to fantasize ways of escape.

She recalls how annoyingly self-confident Seale was—but knowledgeable. “Your teen-agers run away from home. Twelve-year-olds sometimes. Or even younger. Half of them pregnant. They’re the hardest ones to find—no fingerprints on file, no credit records, no paper trail to identify them by.

“Grownups run out on their bills, mostly. Sometimes they just get tired of their husbands or wives—sometimes the guy just doesn’t want to have to pay alimony.”

She pictures him now—a mean man, amused by the misfortunes he’s describing. “We work for the bank to find the guy and repossess the car, or the parents ask us to find the runaway, or the woman pays us to go after the husband and bring him back so she can hit up the poor guy for alimony, whatever.”

She remembers hearing the investigator say: “Most people got no idea how hard it is to lose yourself.” He was playing to his audience with the cunning of a seedy nightclub comic. “If we’ve got a client who’s got a pile of money and plenty of time and he wants to find you bad enough, we can find you. We can find anybody, see?

“I mean, it’s impossible for most people to disappear and stay disappeared. It’d take brains and a lot of hard work. They’ve got to change their whole lives. If they used to play tennis, they’ve got to take up bowling. If they used to go to ball games, they’ve got to start going to the opera. A guy that used to live in conservative business suits, he’s got to start wearing loud sports jackets and leisure suits and Levi’s. If they’re stamp collectors, they’ve got to quit it—and remember not to subscribe to any stamp-collecting magazines. If they drove a small car they should buy a big car, or a pickup truck or maybe a motorsiccle.

“And they can’t ever make contact with any of their friends or relatives. That’s what trips most of them up. Sooner or later they get the urge to drop a postcard to Momma or make a long-distance call to Uncle Fatface. That’s when we get ’em.

“See, it’s not enough just to change your name and move to Florida. You’ve got to change everything. Every detail. You make a list of everything you know about yourself and you change every single thing on the list. You try and change the way you walk, the accent, everything. You’ve got to become a new person—a whole new type of person in a different social class. That’s the only way to hide from guys like me. See, most people just aren’t willing to make those kinds of changes.”