My lawyer received permission to accompany me as I carried out Audrey's final wish.
Two correctional officers escorted me to northern Pinecrest. There was no Whitmore estate there, no cameras, and no applause—only a fir forest near the Northland border.
Audrey had cut a photograph of the place from a travel magazine when she was 16.
She hid it inside the sole of her shoe and refused to throw it away even when it rubbed her foot raw. She said that someday she wanted to live in a cabin in the woods, sleep until she woke naturally, and cut her hair as short as she pleased.
I had asked, "What kind of work would you do?"
She thought for a long time.
"I don't know. Do I have to do anything?"
We both laughed.
For Audrey, doing nothing was the most extravagant dream of all.
I dug a shallo
