With that happy if implausible thought in mind, Todd ordered one more beer for the road and sat back to suck the salt off his peanuts.

*  *  *

“Let me pay for this,” said Janis’s companion when the bill came.

Janis beamed. “Todd never pays for anything,” she said. “He says this is an equal opportunities world now, so the man shouldn’t pay for everything. But that just means—”

“You don’t have to talk about Todd so much,” said her companion.

“I’m sorry,” said Janis. “It’s just for the longest time he’s been the only thing in my life. God,” she said, looking away for a moment, “How sad is that? How freaking… empty.”

“All that’s over,” her companion said, taking Janis’s hand. “There’s a new world for you now. If you want it.”

Janis looked up. She saw a pair of strong blue eyes, and a mouth that disguised concern in a smile.

“I do,” she said. “I do want it.”

*  *  *

Todd got home, not too buzzed, and threw his keys at the wall. Then he checked his messages. Nothing from Janis, nothing from Sara, and then just a whole lot of rustling and breathing. He was about to erase the lot when he heard Billy’s familiar voice rasp out his name.

“Todd,” said Billy on the tape, “Todd, you need to call me. I had this—”

There was a pause long enough for Todd to feel irritated.

“I had this dream,” said Billy’s voice. “You were in it.”

“Jesus, Billy.” Todd winced. “I don’t need you to tell me your erotic fantasies.”

“Todd,” said Billy, “it was more than a dream. It was a warning.”

Todd sighed dramatically and erased the message.

“Some people never realize the truth,” he said out loud. “But the truth is like the tide. It rolls in whether you know about it or not. And if you’re standing in the way of it, you’re going to get your feet wet.”

He blinked.

“Time to get to work, I guess.”

*  *  *

Todd was seated at his typewriter. He looked at the paper already in the machine, the word uncompleted on the paper, and was about to consider his next move when his fingers leapt at the keys and began hammering away as if of their own volition. Pages flowed out of Todd as he battered away, stopping only to put in fresh sheets of paper. A thin sweat broke out on his forehead, and his hands began to ache from the sheer mechanical act of typing, but he never stopped. After two hours, during which time Todd hadn’t stood up, taken a drink of water or turned on the lights, his body was unable to go on.

He slumped in his seat. He looked at the fresh sheaf of words beside the typewriter.

“Who’s writing who here?” he said out loud.

He frowned. What the hell did that mean?