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South

That first night they close out the Gaslamp bars, then can’t find their hotel. They sleep in the van. It’s awful. They like it; they go nocturnal (makeup would kill them if they came back bronzed).

They find the hotel. It’s being picketed. They cancel.

“I don’t have health insurance either,” says South. False dawn rosies the beach. “How different are we, us and the maids and handymen?”

“You’ll get Guild insurance,” Rebecca says, “once they pick up the pilot.”

“If.”

“When.” Six a.m. and she’s rubbing sunblock into her hands, which are thin and strong, raw knuckles and short nails.

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