He studied the Morris look-a-like and watched with increasing curiosity as the man drew something from his shirt pocket. Just that one movement told him he wasn’t imagining anything. The way a person moved was as personal as a signature. This guy moved like the agent; he’d seen him pull his card out enough times to recognize the tilt of his head, the angled movement of his arm.

Well, wasn’t that good and dandy? Here they were, together, staring into the same river. This couldn’t be accidental.

A sign perhaps? Life telling him to wait, you have a future.

He saw the headline of an imaginary article reporting on the rise of his next book to the top of the charts.

Saved by Serendipity.

An inspirational story of loss and perseverance.

People would read it and go buy his book just to support him, to say thank you for giving them a nugget of hope.

About to give up on life, William Barnes has a chance meeting with an old friend. Instead of taking his life on that fateful night, he writes his comeback best seller.

Didn’t some celebrity like Oprah say fate slaps you on the side of the head if you didn’t listen and keeps slapping until you do? Well, he was all ears now. Maybe now was the time to ask the question of Morris he didn’t have the courage before to ask.

What did the almighty Orelia Mason have that he did not?

By the time he’d decided to stand and walk over to the shadow figure, the river had transformed into a rippling, black mass of water. They were still alone, which it occurred to him was unusual in a park this size. Fate, maybe setting the stage?

If he had maintained any thought of following through with his murderous plans, this had become a perfect spot. Morris was a sitting duck, quack-quack. He didn’t even notice he had company.

But if God, Joseph or anyone else watching from above, had sent anyone down to save him from making a mistake, either with his life or Morris’, they’d find they’d wasted a trip.

In fact, as he drew nearer to Morris, his melancholy, hopeless mood disappeared; he felt refreshed as if the gentle breeze whisking leaves along the riverbank pathway blew the pain from his soul. Now he burned with simple curiosity.

Morris sat with his head in his hands. The arrogance William associated with him, non-apparent. Puzzled, he paused, staring at the man and wondering what he should say. His ex-agent had made himself perfectly clear in their last conversation. Had he anything to gain by confronting him now? His it’s-a-wonderful-goddamn-fateful-intervention bravado evaporated in the fifteen steps he’d just taken.

Morris sat back but continued to stare at the water, unaware, it seemed, that he was no longer alone. He shook his head and mumbled something to himself.

Less than forty minutes ago Morris had postured on stage as the confident agent representing one of the hottest authors on the planet. Now he looked more broken and lost than William. A ghostly, paler version of himself.