I was singled out before I even got to the airport. I was trying to get home from LA. Why do you not have the credit card that paid for these tickets? Why are you just picking up the tickets? Duh! Because my mom bought them for me; thats the only way I can get them! They werent giving [Ann] much trouble. But they assigned three agents to my case. They walked me thru the concourse to an elevator, to their black car. We drove to some backyard-looking place, pleasant enough, sunny, near the amusement park. Millie stayed in the car--I could see her face in the side mirror. They made Megan verify my answers to their questions. I told her to tell the truth, but I assured her she would not be punished for getting stuff wrong. I knew they were already taking notes about everything I said, and about all my mannerisms and movements. Megans first novel was a) 9 pages, or b) 25 pages or c) nonexistent. I said 25 pages, and began to recite it to prove it. Megan collaborated with me on the recreation of her story. I think it had a horse in it. The pages appeared as we spoke, chalk-on-slate. One of their assistants was a large-ish, light-skinned black woman who was into the whole organic/natural thing. She liked to think of herself as an educator to the public about such issues. We were all smoking some sort of ultra light Camels. I lit one for one of the questioners, more as a habitual mannerism of personality than an overt attempt to win them over. Meanwhile, over at the amusement park, they had already dismantled the roller coaster that had broken apart and killed some people. Now in its place they had a ride made out of parachute fabric, that slung people around this way and that. Even from a distance I could see the faces of some of the riders. This one boy in particular looked queasy and uptight, though both his friends--one sitting on each side of him--were laughing their heads off.