“Billy!” Todd shouted as the audience began to boo. “I’m your friend! Why are you doing this to me?”

Billy turned to Todd, and for the first time Todd saw Billy’s face properly. It was a mass of tiny bloody marks, miniature gashes, like some small animal had been gnawing at it, with its small, sharp, unrelenting teeth.

“Thief!” shouted Billy. “Thief!” the audience joined in. “Thief!” every voice in the room shouted. Except for one voice. One small, sharp, unrelenting voice.

It wasn’t shouting, “Thief!” It was shouting, “Teeth!”

*  *  *

Todd came to, sweating.

One thing about Todd Milstead, he knew when to ignore a hint. Put Todd Milstead in a Victorian Christmas story, have him visited by three Christmas ghosts, and at the very last he’d still be maintaining it was someone else’s fault and what the fuck was Bob Cratchit bitching about anyway.

Todd went into his study. He got down the boxed manuscript. Then he got out his secondhand copy of the American Publishers’ Directory, and began flicking through it and writing down telephone numbers.

*  *  *

The first number Todd rang was out of service. The second was answered by a woman who said they didn’t take unsolicited manuscripts and, when Todd asked how you could get a book published without sending it to people who you didn’t know already, put the phone down. The third said they would happily take Todd’s manuscript for a reader’s fee, and when Todd asked what a reader’s fee was and they told him, Todd put the phone down.

The fourth person was helpful.

“We would need to see the first three chapters,” she said. “Or the first ten thousand words, it’s really up to you.”

“I can do that,” Todd said. “I have the whole thing written.”

Something in Todd’s tone must have made her wary, or else she was used to people telling her that all the time. Either way the smile in her voice sounded more strained when she said, “You need to enclose a self-addressed envelope for return of the manuscript and, if it is lost in transit, we can accept no responsibility.”

Todd made five or six more calls, and realized quite quickly that this was the standard response to unsolicited authors. Which was fine. He knew All My Colors would be accepted straightaway.

After all, he thought, it’s already been published once.

*  *  *

Todd took himself to Staples, where he asked for and was given directions to the photocopier. He spent a large part of his remaining disposable income making six copies of his manuscript, and a slightly smaller portion mailing them out to the more reputable-sounding publishers.