As time passed, Bob’s characters became more real to him. But it was one-sided. They couldn’t ask about his day. They couldn’t talk to him about politics or the playoffs. They didn’t care if he was sick. These days, the closest thing Bob had to a friend was Bridget. And he corresponded with her via email.

Nobody much cared what happened to Bob as long as R. M. Haldon produced another book. He needed to finish Eyes of the Forest. Everyone agreed on that.

Even Bob.

Only he couldn’t.

People didn’t believe in writer’s block. But it was real. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to write. He didn’t know how to anymore. Every time he thought about shutting down the world he’d created, he froze.

Despite everything he tried, the characters just lay flat on the page. They didn’t get up and walk around anymore, doing surprising things. The ones he’d thought he would kill now seemed too precious to die.

Day after day, he would sit at his computer, determined to write. Instead, he would have a stare-down with the blank screen. On a good day, he might write a few lines, but then minutes later, he would delete them all. Once he’d printed out a few paragraphs, put them aside for a week, and then read them aloud. He’d hoped that would make new words come.

It didn’t.

He’d tried taking a walk, taking a bath, taking a nap. Tried outlining, but that was even worse than writing. After reading about an author who wrote with a cap pulled over his eyes, Bob attempted it. But at some point his fingers wandered off the home keys, so it was gibberish. He’d tried letting it rest, and he’d tried forcing it. He’d tried writing after a few beers. He’d tried telling himself he could mail-order his favorite chocolate once he finished a chapter. He’d even downloaded a program that showed you images of spiders if you didn’t write fast enough but rewarded you with a picture of a kitten for every hundred words you did write.

All he’d seen was spiders.

Eyes of the Forest was going to take as long as it was going to take, Bob thought now as he bit off another hunk of cheese. Everyone was just going to have to deal with that. Including Derrick.

Still chewing, he lay back down, pulled the covers over his head, and fell asleep.

He woke to someone prodding him. Bob rolled over. It was Derrick. Tall. Skinny. Bad skin. That ridiculous wannabe mustache faint on his upper lip.

“Derrick.” Relief loosened his tight muscles.

“Hello, Bob.” The kid’s face was expressionless. He took everything too seriously. Like actually hitting Bob with the butt of the gun, the gun that Bob realized now was obviously fake.