I have a third baby girl, only I can't remember who her father is. Maybe he's the Spanish man Pablo or maybe I was still married to Howard. I feel embarrassed; one should know these things. Lydia and I are talking. My father calls me over to show me something that vibrates under a floor. I see a broken piece in the floor and a hole. I say, "Whatever it was came through here." I hoped it wasn't scary aliens. My mother is calling my father from a distance. Her voice is harsh and bossy. I feel sorry for my father. Lydia and I walk outside. She says, "You need to go where the good writers are." I say, "Where?" She says, "Maybe with Howard." I laugh. She says, "No really. Maybe the Native Americans." I say, "They aren't writers." I think of L.A.