“Down on your knees, yokel, and pay proper homage to your sovereign ruler,” King Orwen ordered Rowan, sitting on his jeweled throne in pasty splendor.

Rowan remained standing, head held high, dressed in tattered rags.

A hush fell over the hall as people awaited the king’s capricious wrath.

At Rowan’s insolence, King Orwen curled his soft hands into fists. “I am your new sovereign ruler. You must kneel.”

But Rowan didn’t move a single firm muscle. At a nod from the king, the soldier standing to Rowan’s left smote him in the face with the flat of his sword. The blow knocked his battered helmet to the marble floor with an echoing clang.

Even though Rowan staggered, he remained on his feet, blood trickling from his ear.

“Kneel before me and tremble, you piteous wretch, or I—”

A newly bejeweled hand reached past Bob to hit the red button on the treadmill’s control panel. “Okay, it’s time to stop. It’s well past time.”

The treadmill coasted to a halt as he turned to face Joanne, tugging up his too-loose pants over what used to be his belly. She was holding a JCPenney bag as well as the stun gun.

“I brought you some new sweats.” Her nose wrinkled. “Size L. I guess I’ll sell the ones you’re wearing now. Your last set went for $376.11.”

The new sweats were a hideous orange-yellow, the color of an egg yolk, a color he could not imagine looking good on anyone. Which was probably why Joanne had chosen it.

It was clear that she herself wasn’t shopping at JCPenney, at least not any longer. Diamonds the size of dimes tugged at her earlobes. Bob was no connoisseur of fashion, but even he could tell that her high-collared black jacket, matching slacks, and pointy high heels with red soles must be expensive.

“Thank you.” He reached for the clothes.

She held the bag out of reach. “First, I have some viewer requests.”

Bob let out a heavy sigh. He’d gotten used to everything—the healthy food, the treadmill, the hours of writing—except the tricks.

“Can’t we just skip this part, Joanne? Derrick told me the chapters are selling well.” Based on the hints the boy had dropped, Bob had done the math in his head. He’d already made them well over a hundred thousand dollars. “Don’t you want me to write?”

She cocked her head. “Don’t you mean that’s what you want, Bob?”

He hesitated, sensing a trap.

“Let’s just say I’m not that interested in what you want. My ex fell in love with your books to the point that he didn’t care about real life. Didn’t care about me. And now Derrick is following the same path. So if I can make some extra money humiliating you? It seems like I deserve that, at least.”