Finally, the hand-drawn map and GPS display somewhat synchronized. I thought the building on my right was the same one shown in the fax.I looked back....The black truck was at the end of the road, idling. I took a breath. Locked the Jeep. Dashed across the road, feeling a thousand eyes on me.My knuckles beat a tattoo on the wooden blue door to the house. No answer.I looked to the left. The truck had started to roll slowly down the street toward me.I knocked again, harder. Nothing.The truck was 15. "Thanks," I say coyly, trying desperately to adopt some of Charlotte'sconfidence."So what are you, a model or something?" Ricky asks. Heh, I think, Iknow a pick-up line when I hear it. Catch this, lover boy..."Actually, I am," I say, causing Ricky's eyes to go wide. "Aprofessional model." Have you been in any magazines?" Ricky asks. It takes me a while torealise exactly what type of modelling he thinks I do- or at least, Iclaim to do. I don't know if it's the alcohol or the atmosphere butrather. More

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