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turned onto Janss and followed the four-lane road to the hospital. To her left was a Methodist church with a blood donation banner hung across the reader board. To her right a sign posted the speed limit and the words, “Welcome Home.
    Relax and Slow Down.” Everywhere she looked there were houses and trees. Not a billboard in sight. Even the strip mall she passed was signless and surrounded by so much greenery that it was nearly impossible to catch a glimpse of the local McDonald’s.
    She’d read recently that the city had been voted the safest in America. She could see why. It appeared to be the quintessential American town. Quiet, peaceful, an occasional morning jogger, an elderly couple on bicycles. Water from a front-yard sprinkler sparkling in the sun. Everything about the city looked safe, quiet, secure . . . in many ways it reminded Julia of her own childhood.
    But looks can be deceiving. Julia, of all people, knew that.
    She crossed a major intersection—still no billboards or signs—and continued through another residential area until finally a small lit sign came into view. It read: The Conejo Valley Medical Center. She slowed, took a deep breath, and turned into the tree-lined drive. Eventually she found the visitor’s section and pulled into a stall. She turned off the ignition and was surprised at how hard her heart was pounding.
    She opened the car door, was reminded to remove the keys by the chiming bell, and stepped out into the warm sunlight.
    Everything was deathly still. Not a hint of breeze. Not a sound of traffic. Directly ahead lay the three-story, white-and-beige hospital. On the pole beside its entrance was the American flag and the California flag with its brown bear on white background. Both hung lifeless. Overhead, in one of the dozens of pine trees, a crow clicked and cawed, and in the distance she could hear the dull roar of someone using a leaf blower.

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    Everything else was silent, except for her own breathing and the pounding of her heart. Julia closed her eyes and lifted her face to the warm California sun, feeling it soak into her skin. She took another breath, smelling the morning heat and sun-softened asphalt.
    Then she opened her eyes and started toward the hospital.
    v
    “So do you want to move in for close-ups?”
    A disoriented Conrad turned from the glaring sun. He looked down to see he was standing on a small ridge of sand and bunchgrass about twenty yards from a river. The river was good sized, broad and flat, surrounded sparsely by cot-tonwoods. Beyond it lay rolling hills, tan and gold, sprinkled with clumps of olive green trees. And beyond those were dark, navy blue mountains shaded by ominous black clouds.
    “Connie?”
    Still trying to get his bearings, he turned toward the voice.
    It was Ned Burton, his favorite cameraman—late thirties, short, scraggly red hair, and a moth-eaten goatee. As a member of the old school who insisted upon producing his own segments, Conrad tried to work with those he trusted most.
    And Ned, with his experience and dogged tenacity, was always his first choice. At the moment, his eye was glued to the viewfinder of JVC’s latest digital camera—a mere $11,673
    (list price before tax), top of the line . . . until next year’s model came out.
    “We got enough on this clown,” Ned said, opening his other eye to look at Conrad. “Let’s get some cutaways of the audience and get outa here ’fore that storm hits.”
    Conrad turned back toward the mountains. Thunderheads darkened the sky above them. He could smell the moisture in the air. Already a breeze had kicked up. “Yeah,” he cleared his throat, “uh, cutaways, that would be good.”
    Without a word, Ned pulled his eye away from the camera, wiped his face with his sleeve, and motioned to the hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 28
    28 nearby sound man, Mike Horton. They’d only used Mike once or twice before. He was skinny, eager, and Ned’s junior by