For years, people had been hounding him for Eyes of the Forest. They claimed they wanted the end. The answers. They demanded mysteries be unraveled, secrets revealed, King Tristan’s killer unmasked.

At least that was what they said they wanted, he thought as he chewed.

What they really wanted was a cliffhanger they could obsess over for months. Or a tiny clue the astute could endlessly tweet and Instagram about—or whatever people did these days.

He wasn’t a trained monkey who could dance on command, Bob thought, biting off a second cheese corner. He was R. M. Haldon. The author even people who weren’t readers now recognized, thanks both to the TV shows and the entertainment media that covered anything popular, even books. His uniform of black T-shirt, stonewashed jeans, and white Nikes made him easily recognizable, but the clincher was the violet silk scarf around his neck. Bob wore it winter and summer, indoors and out. On the rare occasions he washed it, he felt more naked than he did in the shower.

He knew he could always just not wear the scarf, but it was his last tie to Lilly. But thanks to it, Bob could barely walk a block without being stopped and asked for a selfie. Some people didn’t even ask, just wrapped their arm around his shoulder or waist, held out their phones, and clicked. All without saying a thing.

Fans said they loved him, but they only loved him for what he could give them. Kobe beef cattle supposedly received daily massages and troughs filled with beer. Classical music was even piped into their stalls.

But they were still destined for slaughter.

Bob couldn’t even go out to dinner by himself without someone tweeting or YouTubing about the stains on his shirt or how much he was stuffing his face. So much for being “fans.”

The word fan was short for fanatic. And it wasn’t a new phenomenon. Back in 1844, there’d been mass frenzy at Franz Liszt’s concerts, with audience members fighting over the composer’s gloves or broken piano strings.

Bob had become public property. It was why he’d hired Joanne. She could grocery shop and run errands and be invisible. That way he didn’t have to worry about unflattering photos, tirades about how he wasn’t writing fast enough, or the occasional woman (or even man) who thought Bob was sending secret messages of love via his prose.

Every year, he’d become more of a concept than a person. Gained a little more weight. Felt a little more alone. And every year, the number of people who had known him prior to his fame dwindled.