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identities.”
    “Protect against what? Organized crime or something?”
    Isabel shakes her head. “Their husbands. Their boyfriends.”
    Now it sinks in. I think about TV movies and news reports. About dysfunctional families and battered women. And then I remember Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson in San Diego, how, in the months before they split up, we would hear their screaming fights all the way down the block.
    “That bad, huh?” I ask. “I mean, with Linda?”
    Isabel's forehead wrinkles up and a tear rolls down her cheek. I put my arm around her shoulder and say, “Look, I don't know who Linda is. I have no idea what she looks like. And I'm not going to go blabbing her name all around town. Won't you feel better if you talk to someone about this?”
    Isabel thinks for a moment. Then she nods. “Yesterday one of the residents left the center.
    She told Ms. Hardwick she was going to stay with her family in Anaheim. Well, her family was there waiting. But so was her ex-husband. He'd found out where she was going. And...”
    My stomach is churning. I say to myself, Linda must be alive. Isabel is writing to her.
    The first question I can think to ask is, “Will Linda be able to come back to the shelter?”
    Isabel nods. “When she's out of the hospital. I guess the ex-husband doesn't know about GAEA. But it's not only Linda I'm worried about. It's her little boy. He's still at the shelter.”
    I think about all the little kids I met. I ask Isabel which boy it was.
    “His name's Mikey,” she replies.

    1/3
    1:17 A.M.
    Sorry about all the wet spots, Nbook. It's been a long, emotional night.
    I spend all this time comforting Isable, then I go to bed myself and—ZING!--I'm a basket case. I can't stop picturing that poor little boy.
    I think about how he called me Mommy. Why? Where was Linda that day?
    Finally, around midnight, I can't stand it any longer. I know it's late but I have to talk to someone. So I call Maggie's private number.
    Maggie sounds practically dead. But when she hears me crying, she wakes right up.
    I tell her everything, taking care not to mention names. Maggie listens carefully
    and makes two suggestions:
    1. I should go to sleep. 2. I should write to Mikey. Something creative, something that would make him happy. He probably needs all the support he can get.
    It's late. Too late. But I have to work on 2.
    1/3
    7 P.M.
    Yo, Nbook. Here I am at a Vanish rehearsal. I am listening to “Fallen Angel” for about the tenth time, and I'm bored.
    James is mad at me again. I do not understand him.
    About a half hour ago, I'm showing Maggie the comic strip I drew. She's not really getting it. I explain that Max and Mr. Peebles are Mikey's action figures.
    But Maggie is such a writer. She writes these meaningful poems and songs, and she
    thinks everything has to have hidden meanings and deep thoughts.
    “But what does the story mean?” she asks. “How does it end? How is it supposed to make him feel better?”
    What I want to say is this: When I was playing with Mikey, I noticed how great he felt whenever Max triumphed. So Mikey identifies with Max. Now that Mikey must be feeling scared and vulnerable, I figure he'd like to see a comic strip in which Max saves the kids in the center.
    That's what I want to say. But what comes out is something like this: “See, Mikey's Max and Mikey's scared but Max is strong and saving people, so Mikey might feel that way too.”
    Of course, Maggie looks at me as if I'm speaking a foreign language. So I try to explain.
    Then James walks into rehearsal and suddenly I'm all distracted. I can see he's looking at my ankle. Checking to see if I'm wearing his bracelet.
    I'm not, and he doesn't look too happy about it. Now he's looking over my shoulder.
    “What's that?” he says.
    Well, I'm feeling bad enough that I showed the drawing to Maggie. I'm already coming close to breaking my promise to Isabel. So I close you right up, Nbook, and I put you in my backpack. “Just a drawing.