I found some phone numbers and a postcard, all unrelated, in Sartre’s Nausea. I don’t know whose numbers they are. The postcard was mailed to my parents’ house and after a careful perusal of my mental rolodex, I think I’ve figured out the Heather that sent it. She had just started working at a publishing company. I wonder what she’s doing now. Probably the agent for my new favorite writer. . .