Derrick was trembling so hard he thought he might fly apart. How many times had he read Haldon’s books, looking for clues to his alter ego, Rowan/Rickard, the peasants’ leader? As Rowan grew from a boy to a man in the books, Derrick’s Rickard had also grown in importance. Thanks to them, in Cascadia Derrick had been able to re-create himself as everything he was not in real life. Derrick was book smart, but Rickard was clever. Derrick wasn’t brave, but Rickard was never afraid, even if he should be. And while Derrick was practically invisible, whenever he played Rickard, people looked to him for guidance.

R. M. Haldon stuck out a big, square paw. Derrick was almost afraid to shake it. What if he squeezed too hard and somehow damaged his hand?

“Oh, it’s so wonderful to meet you, Mr. Haldon,” he babbled, gently grasping the outstretched fingers, which seemed oddly gritty. “I’m your biggest fan.”

Had Haldon rolled his eyes? Surely not.

The other man pulled back his hand and stuck it in the open bag of Doritos on his lap. “Okay, kid, thanks, but you don’t need to say that stuff. And just call me Bob.”

“But it’s true.” Derrick’s voice was weak. “I love your books.” The bright colors in the room were dimming.

Haldon shrugged. “That’s what everyone says. No one is ever my number two fan, or my number one thousand fifty-third fan. And they always say it like I owe them something.” He shoved a handful of chips into his mouth.

Shame washed over Derrick. He’d been stupid enough to think he would make an impression. Maybe even make a friend.

Haldon listed a little to one side, then righted himself, leaving behind a ghostly orange handprint on the chair’s arm. Derrick refocused on the cluttered desk behind him. Among the detritus were at least a dozen crumpled silver cans.

It all became clear. Derrick had seen his grandpa drunk often enough to recognize the signs. The slurred words. The swaying. The unfocused eyes. The meanness.

Derrick found his own meanness. Instinctively, he knew how to hurt Haldon most.

“Do you think you’re going to still have fans if you never finish Eyes of the Forest? There’s a dozen writers now who write the same kind of books you do—and they’re publishing.”

Haldon closed his eyes, and a long moment passed. “You think I don’t want to write it, kid?” His eyes were still closed. His voice was soft. “Do you think it’s easy sitting here day after day, trying to make the words appear? Do you think I like getting letters from fans threatening to chain me to a typewriter?”

And suddenly Derrick knew how to help. Not for Haldon’s sake, but for the books’ sake. The books were bigger than Haldon. Bigger than anything.

“Maybe that fan is right,” he said.