As he sat in the present, looking out at the ghost audience of the past, he fought back the tears burning at the corner of his eyes. His limbs felt weak and his exhaustion so engulfing he could sleep for a thousand years—a clichéd line, yes, but oh so true. William rested his arms on the table, nestled his head in the pillow they made, and closed his eyes.

Orelia Mason stood behind him patting his back. “There there William, it will all be okay. Authors like me are soon forgotten. True art wins out.”

William didn’t want to wake up from the dream even as he felt himself tugged awake by a God-like hand shaking the stage floor, then his shirt and his head. He wanted to first thank Orelia for being such a good sport; for stepping down from the podium; for giving him back what belonged to him, what he’d earned and what she had stolen.

The store assistant—the one he’d kill off first in a horror film and would now make it messy as hell—awoke him with a rough push of his shoulders.

In his half-awake state, William exclaimed, “Thank you. You’re too kind.”

First-to-die’s expression said it all. William must have looked and seemed crazy, drunk or drugged, sleeping here on a desk in the basement of a store.

He wanted to explain to the young man he was an author, and that he’d been sleeping badly because he’d endured a tough few weeks. If there was anywhere a sleeping author should be welcome, surely it was a bookstore.

But the derision in the man’s voice when he said, “Buddy, you need to sleep this off somewhere else,” stopped him.

He shot up without addressing him, hastened to the stairs, took them two at a time, and bolted out the store’s door at a sprint. Someone looking at him that way after everything he’d achieved was the final humiliation. In his head, he heard Orelia laughing at him and saying, “Just what that man deserves. The hack.”

How dare she? How dare she?

He didn’t deserve this. Any of this. All he did was help another human being, support a fellow author, and somehow this offloaded his luck. This failure of everything important in his life was what he received in return for his trouble.

It took him nearly two hours to walk home, but he relished the time because as he walked he thought hard on what he might do. With each step, the kernel of a plan took form, ideas swimming in and out of his imagination. By the time he’d arrived at the front door he stopped, holding the handle, breathing out the anguish and humiliation.

His mind now danced with lightness; his spirit uplifted. He had a plan. Not complete but some interesting ideas of what he could do to turn this whole thing around. He thanked his creative mind for remaining sharp when he had faltered. Where only hours ago there had been tears on his face, now rested a confident smile.