Second bedroom: Guest accommodation/office, cramped by material effluvia. Childless. Desktop, monitor, and router. Futon. Some books – college artifacts and the rest heavy on chick-lit, memoir, and self-help. Scattering of framed memorials of fraternity, sorority, and pre-wedding excesses. Barely visible on the floor behind the computer hutch was a fragment of paper. David picked it up. Rotating it to capture the light, the seriphed, one word title and litany of celebrity headlines down the right side gave it away. ‘People’ – inexplicably durable. ‘February 22, 2013’. He could just make out the image of a striking, blonde-streaked brunette with stylish eyeglasses and a 300-watt, dimpled smile, winking. ‘Chief Exec Sarah Talks War, Economy.’ He peered closer, beneath the rag’s title. ‘America’s Official Newsweekly.’

Night was upon him. David chose anonymity over memories and set out to claim another venue for refuge and rest. He was just out on Virginia Street again when he saw the broad glow to the south. He trekked the scant half-mile to West El Segundo Boulevard. The Chevron refinery and tank farm – ‘Largest refinery on the West Coast.’ He bounded up the fire escape of an old building two doors east and reconnoitered. The distillation centers and the coking units were full-tilt and steam poured from the cooling units sprinkled throughout. Workers in hard hats and coveralls monitored operations all over the huge lot, but darkness foiled further identification. Like his grade school tour, the outbound truck and rail functions were as predominant as they’d been. David scanned west to find a cohort of tankers riding at anchor, proximate to an offshore terminus fed by ganged pipelines. Tracing them back to shore, he guessed that some were offloading crude and others were taking on refined product, including liquid petroleum gas. Where’s all that product going? He couldn’t locate the familiar red and blue chevron, so he trained on the dim signage at the front gate across the street from him. Sinopec. New one on me.

Passing aircraft woke David from dreamless sleep. He’d chosen another house at random in a vain attempt to provide some – any – context or frame of reference. No newspapers, periodicals, or topical nonfiction – just the same electronic relics and bound or stapled fluff. He’d given up and crashed in a preteen male’s bedroom. Kiss II? The Los Angeles Rams of Industrial City? David Beckham playing for the L.A. Galaxy? Apple iPhone4? The last artifact fascinated and gave him hope until he realized the battery was long gone.

He yawned, stretched, and stepped into the hallway. Seeing the toilet reminded him that – well… That stuff really metabolizes – efficient.

In the garage, he found a dust-laden road bike. Schwinn Prologue – looks expensive; 10-speed Shimana. These things lasted forever, before they started building ‘em in China. Hey! Got a helmet…Hell. Tires probably oxidized and axles dry, anyway. He looked closer. The tires consisted of a flexible, gel-filled composite and the axle’s bearing races were Teflon-coated. Suh-weet! He found a rag fragment and went to work.

David burst through the side gate into the cul-de-sac and made lazy figure eights in the dying dawn, re-enacting the scene between Paul Newman and Katharine Ross in “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.” ‘Raindrops keep fallin’ on my head…’ One of Dad’s favorite movies. He remembered the times they spent in the dark on weekends, mostly when “Mom wasn’t feeling well,” and watching DVDs together, toward the end. All I need now is a woman.

He put a foot down and shook himself out of his reverie. Wheeling up Concord, he turned right on Grand Avenue and pedaled east to take in Recreation Park, where he’d played Little League ball. The hardball and softball diamonds were weed-strewn desert and the pavilion fronting the picnic ground on the east side had long since caved in. Just like most of the picnics – and the ol’ family unit, when...

Pumping furiously, he shot out the north entrance, glided up Sheldon Street, and turned right on East Mariposa. He swung from curb to crumbling curb, almost indifferent now to the platoons of silent dwellings on either side. His mind festering with uninformed doubt, David really didn’t raise his eyes until he’d cruised across North Sepulveda. Against the shimmer of the emerging sun, he detected movement. He braked and clawed for the binoculars. Shadows moved from left to right on the distant 405. Buses! Different buses! Seized by purpose, he coursed east, passing the old Green Line light rail station at Nash Street, and pulled up where Mariposa dead-ended into North Douglas Street. Massive office and industrial complexes reminded him that David stood at what had come to be ground zero for all things aerospace before he went on ice. In the few square miles surrounding Los Angeles Air Force Base, upwards of 2o,ooo souls brought to life virtually every missile and satellite with any military or commercial utility – some weapons platforms and delivery systems, too. The giants among scores of contractors were Raytheon, Boeing, and Northrop Grumman at the time he went under. Now, states of repair and rooftop stacks and ventilation systems told him this sector was still alive.

He recognized the behemoth before him as what his father had shown him was Northrop Grumman, though that identity was no longer apparent. He crossed Douglas and made his way to the southern side of the main building, where the first bus passing on Aviation Boulevard startled him. Ditching the bike and hugging the wall, he counted a dozen coaches going by. Unlike his LAX transport, they were light aquamarine in color– matching his jumpsuit and helmet. By now the leader in the column had turned left onto 120th and immediately left again, moving toward him. Once they all flanked the building, the doors opened and discharge began from the rearmost. Every passenger was dressed as he was; they fell into single file and moved with synchronous precision inside. David dropped his pack and sprinted to the rear of the line. He mimicked their cadence as best he could until he was inside.