That was when she thought: I am.

14 Going home from Las Vegas—home: she’s realizing that never before has she truly understood the complexity or ambiguity of the word—she spends three days on various buses and trains; she isn’t in a sightseeing mood but she wants to be sure her trail can’t be picked up and followed from the car she’s just sold and so she endures a roundabout tour of Lake Tahoe, Sacramento, Napa and San Francisco. At every stop she converts thousand-dollar bills into postal money orders and bank cashier’s checks.

Finally she returns by air coach to Burbank in the Valley.

On the plane she studies her list. It seems important to keep the mind pragmatically focused on details; otherwise she has the feeling she may fly apart.

For this flight she has paid cash and assumed yet another new false name. By now she feels able to do this with a certain distracted aplomb. Not like the first time, when she nearly gagged with alarm—filling out a motel registration slip in Pennsylvania, scribbling a name she’d made up on the spot, concocting an address, paying cash in advance for the room, hardly daring to look the room clerk in the eye.

The clerk didn’t even lift an eyebrow and that was when she began to realize that nobody has any reason to care. Nobody suspects you if you just behave naturally. The world is indifferent to the way you spell your name. As long as you pay the bill nobody gives a damn whether you’re traveling under a nom de guerre.

She’s thinking: Nobody even notices. Then why’s my heart still pounding so?

15 During her absence the first Social Security card—Jennifer Hartman’s—has arrived in the mail. She looks at it in a kind of wonder. It gives her the oddest feeling: as if she is giving birth to a new person, one piece of paper at a time.

She takes a cab to the Motor Vehicle office and stands in queues all morning and part of the afternoon filling out a driver’s license application and taking the written test; she stands in front of a machine that takes her picture—short fair hair and glasses; and now they want to take an ink impression of her thumbprint.

“Do I have to?”

“Why? You got something against it?” The man has greasy black hair and suspicious little eyes.

She says, “We’re all just numbers in somebody’s computer, aren’t we. I don’t want to be fingerprinted and weighed and whatever else they do in prisons. I just want a driver’s license.”

“The thumbprint’s for your own protection. We don’t send them to the FBI or anything. It’s just for identification in case of—you know, suppose the car gets smashed up and burned.”

“If that happens I won’t care much, will I.”

“The thumbprint’s optional,” he concedes. “You don’t have to do it.”

“Thank you.”

“Take this form over to that line and make an appointment for your road test.”

She manages to take the road test the same afternoon: it takes pleading (“I can’t afford to keep taking taxis all the way out here”) and some batting of eyelashes. Nothing, she thinks, is beneath me.

They give her a temporary license and she telephones for a cab; she has it drop her a few blocks from her motel at the supermarket, where she buys provisions for the evening and several newspapers. When she lets herself back into the motel room she opens the papers to the classified pages and spends the evening making phone calls.

Next day she looks at four cars and buys a three-year-old air-conditioned Japanese station wagon from a woman in Reseda whose husband is hospitalized with emphysema. “We won’t be needing two cars for a spell,” the sad woman says, and agrees to take $3,750 cash for the car.

By then it is time to drive to Van Nuys airport for her lesson.

16 She’s going to want two apartments: one that can be used as a vested lawful address; the other to live in.

For her legal residence she picks out a furnished room off Lankershim Boulevard. She chooses it mainly because it’s cheap and because the mailbox, to which she is given a key, is in an oleander-screened passage around the side of the building. She can drive in by way of the alley and no one watching the apartment or the main doors will be able to see her when she checks the mailbox.

The rental agency is a busy office a mile away and that’s helpful because she doubts very much that they’ll remember what she looked like when she signed up. They won’t see her again; she only needs to remember to send in the rent check once a month.

Hurrying through cheap department stores and thrift shops she buys a wardrobe of new and used clothing. The three pairs of shoes are two sizes too large for her and the underwear and clothes are chosen to fit a woman approximately three inches shorter and ten pounds heavier than she.

In Duttons’ bookshop she picks up a carton of second-hand paperbacks, most of them Regency romances. She buys an old black and white TV set for forty dollars and a couple of timers that will turn the lamps on and off automatically; an assortment of inexpensive toiletries and cosmetics, none of them her own brands; two bottles of very cheap wine, a few frozen foods and juices, several cans of soup and a few boxes of crackers—a variety of nonperishable foods with which to stock the dummy apartment so that it will look lived in.

She makes the bed and squirms in it and then climbs out, leaving the top sheet and blanket turned back and the pillow dented and a romance novel open face down on the bedside table. It occurs to her to leave two windows narrowly ajar to permit air circulation so that the place won’t feel stuffy and uninhabited. Then she hangs a set of towels on the racks, unwraps a bar of soap and a toothbrush, uses them and leaves them in the bathroom.

A couple of tissues crumpled in the wastebasket; a folded paper towel beside the sink with an upended coffee cup on it; let’s see—what else?

It seems enough. Not much by way of evidence about the woman who lives here—but such as it is, it doesn’t point to the real tenant.

The next thing to do is leave a forwarding address at the motel where she’s been staying. From now on, this is the legal and mailing address of Jennifer Corfu Hartman.

And now for her actual residence she investigates seven or eight advertisements and chooses a one-bedroom apartment at the back of a court.

The furniture is nondescript; you could find better in a second-class hotel. The place is dark because its windows are small and set high, insulation and privacy and security being more important than light or a better view of the swimming pool in the unshaded yard below.

Under the afternoon sun it is far from cool in mid-July even though the through-the-wall air-conditioning units are running at capacity.

It has no grace, no flavor—nothing left of the transients who must have occupied it momentarily on their way up or on their way down or simply on their way through.

She takes it because it is clean and it is furnished and the price is reasonable and it is available month to month for cash without a lease.

She doesn’t expect to entertain here; with luck nobody will know she lives here; she doesn’t intend to stay any longer than it will take to get her bearings and decide on a structure for her new life and find a residence suitable to it: one into which she may blend so precisely that she’ll never arouse anyone’s curiosity.