Todd was about to go for best of five when he saw how pointless it was. The two books were, to all but the most pedantic, identical. Any differences could be put down to a copier’s bad memory. Because that’s all I am, Todd said to himself, a bad copier. It felt irrational—it was irrational—but in all the time Todd had been stuck at that typewriter, letting the book flow out of him, even though he’d been nothing more than a faucet gushing words and pages, some part of him had hoped, had even believed, that he, Todd Milstead, was adding to the book in some way, some extra layer or some new ingredient.

But now, looking at the two books side by side, Todd realized he was no more than a stenographer taking dictation. And not a very good one either, he realized.

*  *  *

Todd sat there looking at the two books for quite some time. Then he picked up the older book (he refused to call it the original) and opened it at the back flap. There was no author photo, which Todd found suspicious, but there was a brief biography.

“Jake Turner,” Todd read out loud, “was born in Pontiac, Michigan and held down a variety of jobs before finally realizing that he was a writer. All My Colors is his first novel.”

That was it. Todd didn’t know what he’d been expecting—”Jake Turner is a fucking ghost who is going to get you for this,” perhaps—but something more than this flat, disingenuously not-really-humble piece of nothing. Todd noted also that the blurb contained exactly one piece of information.

Still, one was better than nothing. Todd went over to his grip, rummaged around for his telephone address book and went back to the desk and picked up the phone.

It was answered by a coughing fit. Todd briefly recoiled from the mouthpiece and said, “Behm? This is Milstead.”

“Milstead,” said Behm when he was finished coughing. “I thought we were done.”

“I’m not calling about Janis,” said Todd.

“Well, that’s good, I guess. How can I help you?”

“I want you to track someone else down for me.”

Was that a sigh at the other end of the phone? Todd wasn’t sure.

“Got a name?” asked Behm.

“Jake Turner.”

“Someone you know?”

“No. And that’s all I know about him.”

“Just the name? That’s not ideal, Mr. Milstead.”

“And his place of birth. Pontiac, Michigan.”

This time there was a definite sigh at the other end of the line.

“That narrows it down, a little. Okay. Is there a time limit on this?”

“Soon as possible.”

“Great. Nice and vague. Is there anything else, Mr. Milstead? Like what the guy does for a living?”

Todd took a deep breath.

“He’s a writer,” he said.