By the time class was out for the evening, Joanna was more than ready. On the way back to her room, Joanna stopped by the lounge long enough to buy a diet Coke from the vending machine and to make a few phone calls from the pay phone. The soda was more rewarding than the phone calling was. No one was available to talk to her, not at home and not at the office, either. Both Frank Montoya and Dick Voland were out of the office, and the answering machine out at the High Lonesome clicked on after the fourth ring. Joanna hung up without leaving a message. Back in her room, Joanna settled herself at the desk and tried to wade into the seventy-six pages of text Dave Thompson had assigned to be read prior to class the following day. It didn’t work. Chilling flashbacks from the shoot/don’t shoot scenario kept getting in the way of her concentration. Finally, exasperated, she tossed the book aside, picked up her notebook, and began scribbling a hasty letter: Dear Jenny, I’m supposed to be studying, but I can’t seem concentrate.
