What was it like?

It was hard, cold, and without much comfort.

The days were too long and the nights were even longer. I met a few friends, but then they didn't turn out to be that friendly at all. One of them stole my bag and another stole my wallet. It was then that I decided that city life wasn't for me.

I managed to get back to my car where I had some money stowed away. Then I drove south. I drove until I got to Santa Barbara. I walked into the first restaurant they had on the beach and asked for a job. I needed money to get by and they needed a server to charm the ladies. I was good at that.

Don't get me wrong. I'm well aware of my privilege. I made a choice to go on that trip and to live on the streets. Most of the people out there do not.

Once things got a little bit hard, I got back into my car and I tried out something different. I applied for a job and got it on the spot. That probably had a lot to do with the fact that I was young, attractive, and well-spoken.

Still, I continued to live in my car. I read my books and tried to figure out what to do with my life. I knew that I couldn’t go back to see my family, but I also didn't want to be a server for the rest of my life. I had a four-year degree, but I didn't want to have a nine-to-five job.

Besides, there was something else that I wanted to do. The only thing, really.

When I get to the two-mile mark, I bend in half trying to catch my breath. My phone buzzes. Running in the sand is a whole other thing from running on hard ground. Both are uneven, but back home there are hundreds of rocks that can sprain your ankle, here the sand feels like it's practically pulling you down inside of itself.

I click on the message app. It’s Brooke. I contacted her for only one reason, to get in touch with her sister and now I don’t want to write her back.

We had a nice talk last night. I was friendly, but it was Emma that kept me up all night. It is Emma that I can’t stop thinking about.

I take a deep breath and turn around. A seagull flies over my head and lands on the waves, plunging her head into the water.

Three surfers walk up behind me, laughing. They are dressed in thick neoprene suits, with only their heads exposed. The youngest one, who looks about twelve, pulls the hood over his head to keep extra warm. Even though the temperature is mildly warm in Southern California most of the year, the water comes from Alaska and it rarely gets into the mid-60s, even during the height of summer.

I lean over carefully to avoid the waves and scoop up a little bit into the palm of my hand. It's ice cold and when I throw it on my face, it cools me off immediately.

I take a deep breath and turn up the music on my headphones. Then I start to run.

Later that morning, I pick up the phone and text Brooke.

As soon as she replies, I want to ask her for Emma's number, but I decide against it.

Instead, I don't write her again.

20

Emma

I spend the afternoon alone.

Luckily, Brooke has a lunch date with a few of her friends. She invites me to join them, but I decline.

At first, she says that she’ll stay and hang out with me, but I tell her that I want to be alone.

It's true.

I need a lot of downtime. I'm not one of those people that can just go from social event to social event and get replenished from having contact with other people.

Before I found Alex cheating on me, I was looking forward to spending the weekend with just him and my Kindle. I thought that we would swim, order room service, make love, and then just hang out each doing our own thing.

I'm still trying to process everything that happened.

After I found him cheating on me, I should have gone home and climbed under the covers and stayed there. After all, that's exactly what I wanted to do. The party changed all that.

Now? I don't know, maybe going to the party was a good thing.

I miss him, of course.

My heart is broken.

I want him back and I also want him dead.

It's hard to explain what it feels like to wake up one morning and have everything in your life different. The one person that I thought that I could trust is gone. What am I left with?

Don't be like that, Emma, I say to myself. You have a lot of things to be grateful for. You have a job you love. You have people who care about you.

You’re well-off, and even if you yourself aren’t particularly well-off, the fact is that your family is. There’re so many people in the world, in fact the vast majority, that are not in your situation. It doesn't mean that you can't feel sorry for yourself, but it does mean that you should keep things in perspective.

When I feel myself spiraling into a hole of depression, I decide to do something proactive. I have the apartment to myself so I pour myself a big mug of tea, grab a bar of chocolate, and sit on Brooke's thick, upholstered couch that probably cost Dad more than just a few thousand dollars.

I put my laptop on my knees and start reading the messages in search of D. B. Carter. A few people in the Facebook groups have replied to my queries, the majority of whom say nothing of importance. Most are only interested in talking about his books, but one person by the name of Matt Lipinski mentions that D. B. Carter lives in Pioneertown, California.

I immediately friend Matt and message him about his post. When I look up Pioneertown on Google, I discover that it's a dusty desert town about two and half hours east of Los Angeles.

It's about twenty-five minutes away from the famous Joshua Tree National Park. The thing that it's most famous for is a restaurant/bar called Pappy and Harriet's, which is a small venue but has had the likes of Paul McCartney and other famous rock musicians perform there.

Its other claim to fame is the town itself, which looks like an old Western movie set. There's a saloon, a little white church, and a number of weathered-wood shops selling turquoise jewelry and handmade horse saddles.

A few minutes later, I get a message from Matt.

What makes you think that D. B. Carter lives in Pioneertown? I write.

I really shouldn’t say, he texts back after a moment.

I would really love the opportunity to contact him or her.

For a moment, I wonder if I'm actually talking to D. B. Carter in real life. Stranger things have happened.

In case I am, I add, I just want to do a small interview. If D. B. Carter isn't interested then I'm not going to write an article at all, but I haven't had any luck contacting him or her directly through social media.

Should you take that as a hint? Matt asks.

My heart sinks.

I click on Matt's name and examine the avatar of a spaceship. We are not friends and he does not accept my friend request.

The only things that I have access to are the profile pictures and they all feature different science-fiction images including a cover of one of D. B. Carter's books from a few years back.

I'm not really sure if the messages are getting through to him, I say, now almost certain that Matt is D. B. Carter, or at the very least a family member or friend.

Okay, Matt says. Here's the address: 10745 Old West Ln.

I shake my head. This has to be a joke.

I'm about to write something back, but not before first putting the address into Google. Much to my surprise, he leads me to Zillow where I see that this house was purchased two years ago for $2.45 million.

I furrow my brow, not wanting to believe what I have just discovered. There's no name listed as the owner and that will require a little bit more research.