The Sunburned Daughter, Part One: Travels
The Sunburned Daughter, Part Two: Motown
The Sunburned Daughter, Part Three: Stowaway
There was to be no rest for the weary, lost in their dreams. Drowning out the rhythm of the incoming tide was a loud speaker from the boardwalk: Hare, Hare, Hare Krishna. Today was their parade on the Beach, held annually on the first of August. It was about the last thing I wanted to hear. “Are those weirdoes still around?” I asked. “The last one I saw was bugging me in an airport a long time ago.”
The Sunburned Daughter, Conclusion: Breadcrumbs
“23700 Camino del Sol, that’s the address,” I repeated, but our driver couldn’t find it anywhere. Neither could we. From Interstate 405, caught in idling traffic that made minutes eternal, we eventually made our way down Route One through places like Lawndale and Windsong, towns with names like cemeteries until we reached Torrance, the center of the labyrinth where Meg, and the Minotaur of a disease that held her captive, waited in the hospital we hadn’t yet found after nearly three hours driving the forty miles from Venice Beach.