After I returned to San Francisco, I kept in touch with Sergio.

One day he called and said, “I know this young woman. She’s the daughter of good friends, had some troubles with cocaine, went through rehab, but now she’s fine. She just needs to get out of Marin County, maybe learn a new skill like photography. Would you consider letting her stay with you for a little while? She could help you on your photo shoots and with the move.”

I had been lonely after Lena and Bernard had left town. I was about to move to Los Angeles, where I knew exactly four people and hadn’t yet figured out all the logistics, so the idea of company and help sounded appealing, and I said yes.

Stacy arrived shortly after. She was a plain-looking, slightly chubby twenty-two-year-old all-American girl with a friendly disposition. She seemed like an okay roommate, and I was able to take her along on shoots as my assistant, where she made herself useful by carrying equipment. I enjoyed her company and didn’t notice any issues.

The first job I took her to was a wedding. While I was working and she was in charge of watching my camera bag, I saw her at the bar drinking champagne with a guest. I didn’t think it was appropriate, but I let it slide.

Then one night, after we went to photograph a cabaret show by the Swedish drag act After Dark, she suggested we stop for a drink at the newly opened Hard Rock Cafe. I rarely drank alcohol and would never have come up with that idea on my own, but I was curious about the new place and agreed. Once there, we sat at the bar with my camera bag at our feet.

Pretty soon, a handsome, well-dressed man with beautifully tanned skin sat down next to her and started chatting. They seemed to hit it off. I finished my drink and decided we should go home. Instead, she asked if she could stay out a little longer and whether I could give her and her new friend a ride to another bar. I was tired and didn’t feel like making an issue of it, so I said, “Okay.”

I dropped them off at a bar, drove home and straight to bed, leaving my bedroom door ajar as usual.

I slept soundly through the night and didn’t hear Stacy come in, but when I woke up I noticed that my bedroom door was closed, which was strange. I immediately suspected that she had brought the guy home and was annoyed. I decided to confront her, but as I stepped into the living room where she was sleeping on the sofa bed, my heart sank.

The area where I usually kept all my photography equipment was empty. My camera bag and the strobe lights bag, five thousand dollars’ worth of gear, plus all the film I had shot at the show, were gone. There was nothing there except for a pink scarf with gold filaments that I had been wearing the night before, lying eerily on the carpet.

“My cameras are missing!” I shouted, waking Stacy up. “Did you bring that guy here last night?”

She opened her eyes and looked at me, hungover, while I continued to yell. “My bags are gone. Did you move them?”

At that point, she sat up in bed and said, “No.”

So I asked again. “Did that man come up last night?”

She seemed confused, but when she spoke, she sounded credible. She admitted that he had accompanied her up but that he didn’t stay.

“We just kissed by the door, and then he left,” she said.

I was upset, so I made it clear that she’d better be honest because I had insurance; I was going to call the police, and she would have to tell them the entire story.

When the police arrived, they asked how she and the man had gotten back to my place, and she answered, “By taxi.”

This turned out to be an important clue. They tracked down the driver, who remembered the pair and confirmed that the guy had been gone for only a few minutes. The driver also gave them the address where he had dropped him off afterward, so they found him, recovered my stuff and made the arrest.

During his brief visit, he had probably unlocked the bottom lock while Stacy had failed to engage the deadbolt. He later returned and stole the equipment.

In spite of everything, I considered myself lucky. I was insured and didn’t get hurt. But the idea that someone had been in my home while I was sleeping was terrifying, and I realized that I had seriously slacked off regarding safety.

Nevertheless, still oblivious to the elephant in the room, I allowed Stacy to stay and help me pack. Rather than giving up the apartment, I had decided to sublet it to a woman I knew. She was going to forward any mail from people I hadn’t notified yet, and I figured there might be some flexibility with the moving date. In fact, we weren’t ready to leave until November 4th.

My furniture and clothing had been loaded the night before onto a U-Haul by a kind Swedish tourist I had recently met. He was planning to fly back to Sweden soon and also offered to drive the truck to Los Angeles in exchange for a little money.

The day we left, I was still rattled by the burglary, concerned about the move and uncharacteristically unprepared. So instead of taking the 5 freeway to Los Angeles, I took the 101. My car was packed with things that I wanted to keep with me, and I was driving slowly.

We stopped several times, and finally, fourteen hours later, at two in the morning, exhausted, we arrived at Sergio’s place, where we went to sleep on the floor in the living room.

The next morning, we drove to my new home, and luckily the Swedish guy was there. He had spent the night in the truck cab waiting for us. After the three of us moved my furniture into the apartment, he and I went to return the U-Haul while Stacy started unpacking.

My plan was to have her stay a little longer while I was getting settled. I was going to be reimbursed for the theft, but my stolen gear was being held as evidence. So I was busy assembling a new equipment kit while she was taking care of chores around the house.

Then one afternoon, everything changed.

Before leaving to run errands, I asked her to paint the kitchen walls.

When I was younger, I had read To Kill a Mockingbird, which had been very influential on my perception of the United States. I remembered that their kitchen was described as being pale yellow. Mine had pale yellow tile countertops, so I bought paint to match and was looking forward to the result.

Later, as I came up the stairs to my apartment, I heard singing. I walked in, smelled paint and saw Stacy standing on a ladder with the paint roller in her hand, but not much had been done.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I went out and bought some wine.”

“Where and how?” I wondered, since I hadn’t given her any money.

“I took the change from your jar and went down to the liquor store,” she explained, pointing to an empty wine bottle in my trash can.

She looked drunk, and I wasn’t happy that the walls hadn’t been painted, but I just told her to get down from the ladder and finish tomorrow.

That night I had plans to go out with a woman I had recently met, so I went to my room to get ready. Later, when she arrived, I walked through the back of the kitchen to let her in at the side door. As I opened the door and greeted her, something caught my attention from the corner of my eye. But before I could react, she stepped inside the house.

The two of us watched as the scene unfolded.

It was dark outside, and the kitchen lights were off, but halfway across the room, the refrigerator door was open, casting a bright light. And there, in that light, we could see Stacy.

She was naked except for dressy red shoes, and she was reaching into the fridge, shoving cottage cheese into her mouth.

Her lower belly stuck out, creased where the waistband of underwear normally sat, while her overgrown, boyish blonde hair was messy.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

She turned and looked at me, surprised.

That’s when I noticed that she had red lipstick on.

Suddenly, she walked toward us, bypassed us and ran outside, still naked. My visitor stared at me in disbelief.

“She’s a friend of a friend,” I found myself explaining as I took off after Stacy.

But she was fast, disappearing down the stairs onto the street. We followed her and watched her stumble and fall into the gutter. Thankfully, no one else was around. We helped her up.

The lipstick was now smeared all over her face.

We brought her inside and made her put on some clothes.

Needless to say, I didn’t go out that night.

Finally, I got it. Not only did she have a drug addiction, but she was also an alcoholic. I had no idea. Back in Italy, most people drank wine daily with their meals, and the concept of alcoholism was never really discussed in our household.

Afterward, I called Stacy’s parents and told them to come pick her up. They said they had good health insurance and might be able to get her into rehab in LA.

The next morning, they told me they had found a place in Beverly Hills ready to take her in and asked me if I could drive her there. I didn’t waste any time. I loaded her and her belongings into my car and we left.

When we arrived, I noticed that it was an upscale facility.

After she checked in at the front desk, a blond doctor in her forties came over and asked me, “What happened?”

“I am just the ride,” I replied.

The truth was a bit messier. I had unknowingly enabled her by letting her drink. But nobody had warned me not to. In other words, I felt that her parents and Sergio had been the irresponsible ones, not me.

The doctor tried to press me for more details, but I told her to ask Stacy.

As I drove home, I was relieved that I had been able to get rid of her so quickly. When I turned on the radio, “Drive” by the Cars came on.

That song marked the beginning of the next chapter of my life, one that ended up being a mixture of bravery and recklessness.