I called my parents in New York and asked them if they wanted to see me. They flew to Boston, and we went to a restaurant near Gloucester, Massachusetts. I felt happy to see them but could not share the burden of my new found freedom. Days later I sat in traffic in the suburbs of Boston. I felt completely alone. I missed the disciples. It was true that we had fallen for Rama's line about stealing one another's power. It was true that we had allowed Rama to foster, through ongoing whispering campaigns, a climate of fear and competition. But I didn't care. The disciples spoke the same language as I. They were my friends. I missed Robert, a UCLA graduate who, in 1982, was drawn to a lecture on the works of Carlos Castaneda. Months after joining the Los Angeles Centre, he was approached one night in Pacific Palisades by two white men. Robert was black. The men were angry that his girlfriend was white. They each pulled out a gun and took aim. They said: "Get out of the car." Robert was concerned that they would rape and kill his girlfriend. He made a quick decision. He slammed down hard on the accelerator. When the bullet entered his head, he kept driving. He passed familiar streets. He had grown up in Los Angeles. Blood streamed down his face. He drove to a hospital where, in the weeks that followed, he did miraculously well. The experience cemented his devotion to Rama, who took credit for the recovery. I missed the Stony Brook disciples. I missed Paul, the computer wizard with the silly grin. Sal, another computer genius, had taken to heart Rama's caveat that disciples were stealing his power. But beneath his fears was a gentle, humorous soul, and I missed him. I missed Rachel, the doctor, who had continued to support the Centre financially, and who had apparently forgotten about the "Garage Door Opener Incident." Dana, the former model and occupational therapy student, often grew icy with the power that Rama gave her over other disciples. But I knew that as Rama's office manager, hers was a particularly trying position (she typically slept three or four hours a night), and I missed her. I missed Anne, the nurse, who had known Rama the longest, and who was also under intense pressure to perform. Once I overheard Rama advising Anne to accept her "true" cold and callous nature. Despite his remark, she mostly lived up to her spiritual name, Prema, which symbolized a higher form of love. I missed the disciples whom Rama had dubbed "assholes of the mountains." I missed UCSD recruits Doug and Eric, whose adventuresome spirit and love of the outdoors was evident in their winter assaults on 12,000 foot peaks. And I missed Mike. Tall, with thick red hair, Mike looked, ate, and at times acted like a wild Viking. In reality, he was a wild UCSD medical student. Once he told me that he occasionally slept in his Volkswagon bus in campus parking lots. "You really do that?" I asked. "Yeah. The cops don't like it, though."