"Are we going east?" Voice of a former girlfriend. "No," you tell her. "West." The roadbed rounds a great curve cut between dry orange-red desert hillsides. But you can't see far ahead, only toward more switchbacks that follow the creekbed. "Toward Chicago?" "No, California." Yet you realize that the conference is in Miami. "Hey," you mention, thinking of Florida. "I may see KC there." "Yes, I'd thought of that," she says.