The words had circled in his head. He even spoke the sentence aloud as if that would help decipher the cryptic message.

“Thank you for the luck.”

Yes, it had made no sense.

As if anything about Orelia made sense. He had a good imagination; came with the job. Or necessary for the job. Or both.

Stay focused, he had reminded himself, staring at the puzzling phrase until the writing almost blurred.

Another part of the job, staying focused.

William. Focus! He repeated this to himself as his mind ran off on a tangent involving the necessities of a writer’s life.

Doing the writing would be one, but he hadn’t done that for months. Was he even a writer anymore?

His thoughts always wandered when the plotting grew difficult. He believed it was his subconscious seeking answers by distracting itself with meaningless concepts. In traveling through circles of connected ideas he found solutions to plot issues, or the exact word he needed to make a sentence sing.

Okay, back with the note, he’d told himself.

Thank you for the luck.

He knew the book affected people. They became accident prone. Mega accident prone.

Why strangers though?

How did it all fit together? Because fit it did. Somehow.

He ran through the memories of the other times he’d seen her with the diary. Their argument in the café was the other event. They had a real relationship though, whereas he doubted she had any connection to these itinerant people.

Another recollection filtered through his mind like a piece of trash in the wind traveling across a supermarket lot. He tried to grab at it, but the thing glided away. Something important knocked on his subconscious. The cloudy memory lodged against the barrier, a rolling ball of, of… something… green.

Green flashed, an exploding firework. Her book flying before his eyes trying to garner his attention.

Yes, he knew about that. But what was new? He didn’t need his mind to keep reminding him how little he understood about Orelia’s abilities.

Then a snatch of an idea came. The time when he’d not only seen the book but touched it. He hadn’t realized its importance back then when their relationship had still been amicable. Who’d notice such an innocuous item?

She’d dropped the book.

No. It fell out of her bag when she reached for her wallet, insisting on paying the check at one of their catch-ups. His instinct was to lunge and, and… make a joke. That’s right!

He’d picked the thing up, chivalrous but feeling playful. His third novel’s manuscript just delivered to his publisher that morning. Euphoria had filled him with giddy happiness and relief. His arm snapped backward, holding the book behind his head with a hand and—

She’d said, “Give it back.”

Her face was twisted, no, pinched. Flustered? Worried? A strange smile he’d never seen from her. Gritted teeth. He saw that look as if she stood before him this second. The grin of a painted doll. Plastic and not real. In that silly moment, he only saw an opportunity to have some fun and tease her.