“Folks,” he said, “I’ll level with you. It was de la Rochefoucauld who said, ‘It is not enough for me to succeed. My best friend must also fail.’ And he wasn’t joking. But,” Timothy went on, “I am joking. Kind of. Todd Milstead is my pal, my best pal”—this was news to Todd—”and I have read his book and I am jealous as hell.”

Timothy smiled again, seemed to forget where he was, looked around, remembered, and said:

“Ladies and gentlemen—Todd Milstead!”

And he staggered to one side as Todd clapped him on the shoulder a little too hard.

“Wow,” said Todd. “What an introduction. I don’t know how I can follow that.”

He looked at his notes. The room was silent now.

“My name,” he began, “is Todd Milstead. And I wrote All My Colors...”

*  *  *

How the time went by, Todd could not have said. He read his extracts, and felt that the audience was with him. He talked easily, if dishonestly, about the genesis of the book, and the process of writing it. He talked about what he thought the book was, and what it meant to him, and if it seemed to his audience that he was talking about the book so objectively that it was almost as if he hadn’t written it, well, wasn’t that the point with books?

He was drawing to a close now. He looked up and saw Sara pointing at her watch.

“I’ve allotted a few minutes for questions,” he said. “I mean, if there are any.”

To his immense surprise, six or so hands went up. Todd took a moment to gather himself, then pointed at a woman in the crowd. She was about forty, and despite the time of year was wearing a rainbow-colored scarf and matching tam o’shanter.

“I loved it,” she said. “What you read, I mean.”

Todd waited for more, but there wasn’t any.

“Thank you,” he said. “That’s not strictly a question but it is nice to hear.”

He beamed. More hands shot up. Todd looked around the room and saw a familiar face.

Mike.

I didn’t see him come in, Todd thought. He must have arrived late.

Mike’s hand hit the air, in a somewhat loose manner.

Arrived late from a bar, thought Todd.

“You,” said Timothy, pointing at Mike.

Mike beamed.

“That was great,” he said, slurring a little. “I just have one question.”

“Fire away,” said Todd. “Mike is an old friend of mine,” he told the room. “So I bet this is going to be harsh.”

There was laughter now. Todd looked back at Mike, waiting for God knows what question.

But Mike was gone.

In his place was Billy Cairns.