“This is your first novel, isn’t it?” Andrew asked, not unkindly.

“Yes,” said Todd. “I have to admit I’m new to this.”

“Okay,” said Andrew. “Your novel—your excellent novel—has been delivered to my store and, I’m guessing, hundreds of other stores. I’m surprised your publisher didn’t tell you. Did you get your author copies?”

“Yes,” said Todd.

“Well, that would be about the time they also sent out the rest of the books,” said Andrew. “Mr. Milstead, your books are available all over America.”

“America,” marveled Todd, as though he’d previously thought his books were only available in Tierra del Fuego, or Holland.

“You knew that, right?” said Andrew.

“Of course!” said Todd. “I have a book tour, after all. I’m going to… at least four states.”

“Four?” said Andrew. “As many as that?”

Todd had to look at him to ensure that he was joking.

“They’re all quite big states,” he said, defensively. “I mean, when I say big, I don’t mean like Alaska, or Texas…” Todd was now almost standing outside his own body, seeing himself dig his own grave.

“I know what you mean,” said Andrew. “Seems to me you need a drink. An American drink, this time.”

And he fetched them two glasses of bourbon.

“When I came here,” he said, “I was amazed at the size of the whiskey glasses. Back home, you barely get enough whiskey to bathe a contact lens in. But here—these things are like buckets.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Todd, who had just realized that all Andrew was doing was trying to calm his nerves.

They drank some bourbon, and went back to the bookstore.

“What the hell?” said Andrew.

“What’s wrong?” said Todd.

“This is unprecedented,” said Andrew.

He was looking at a line of people that extended down the street.

“Must be a great restaurant,” said Todd.

“There’s only one great restaurant here, and it’s terrible,” Andrew said. “Mr. Milstead, this line is for you.”

“Me?” Todd said.

“Maybe they want refunds,” Andrew said, then grinned. “Wow. For once in my life I’m going to sell some books that aren’t on the college curriculum. Move over, Saul Bellow, and let Todd Milstead take over.”

The line parted for them as Andrew opened the door and went inside.

Tina’s eyes were wide and her nostrils were flared.

“There’s hundreds of them!” she said. “I’m going home.”

“Then you don’t get paid,” said Andrew. “Did you get the wine?”

“Yes, I got the wine,” said Tina. “It’s over there. And I laid out the books, and the chairs. It’s ready. But I need to get out of here, I’m having such a panic attack.”