A few days after the Haldon Cam went live, someone had offered money. Not to buy the first chapter, but to watch Bob do push-ups. Derrick had said no, but Joanne had overruled him. As far as Bob could tell, Joanne enjoyed the extra dollop of humiliation it added to his situation.

And once she forced Bob to do them, with some off-camera persuasion from the stun gun (Bob managed five before he had to switch to his knees), the floodgates opened. It turned out people would pay a lot to watch Bob (or someone who at least bore a strong resemblance to Bob) do a wide variety of things. Dance like John Travolta. (For that, he’d just pointed in various directions while swiveling his hips.) Play air guitar. Do the can-can.

Now Bob tucked his thumbs in his armpits, bent his knees, and shuffled around, flapping his elbows. It felt strange, and it wasn’t just because he was pretending to be a chicken while being broadcast on some secret corner of the internet. It also felt strange because the spare tire around his middle was truly disappearing. Almost three weeks on the treadmill, and his new nearly carb-free diet was having an effect. He thought he was down at least ten pounds. The new sweats Joanne had brought Bob when she came to give Derrick a break were just an XL.

Bob’s knees were protesting. Finally, he straightened to his full height. “That’s enough. I can’t do it anymore.”

Joanne shrugged. “Okay. Let’s see what the next one is.”

“I’m not just talking about the chicken! I mean I’m not going to keep shaking my money maker or marching around like a German soldier. I’m not a marionette. I’m a person!” He pointed at the camera. “I’m not their dancing monkey!”

Whoever was watching this could not hear his complaints. Derrick kept the sound off in case Bob pleaded for help and someone listened.

“Oh wait, I think that’s on the list.” Joanne looked down at her phone.

To his horror, Bob realized she wasn’t joking. “I’m supposed to be writing, Joanne. Don’t you remember? This is just getting in the way of my finishing Eyes of the Forest.”

Joanne shrugged. “Derrick’s got several chapters in reserve. And right now, we’re making nearly as much on this as we are on the chapters.”

“Please, Joanne. Please let me go back to the book.” Even the fake book was slowly starting to not be such a fake. Letting go of all his expectations was turning out to be perversely useful.

“First you have to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to somebody named Mabel. I’ll turn on the sound for that. They want you to look right at the camera, and they want a lot of enthusiasm.”

Exhaustion weighted his bones. “No. I’m not going to. That’s enough.”