Dan waited through the distant noise of a jackhammer destroying concrete.

“Not with a Pakistani leading man, no one hasn’t,” Guy came back.

“So I guess we’re still waiting?” Dan said.

“Still waiting,” Guy said. “But hold tight, man. We should be hearing any time now. They love the script. Randy told me again today.”

“They love it. That’s nice. I’m glad they love it so much.”

“Don’t be sarcastic, man. Please. It’s not helpful.”

“I’m not being sarcastic,” Dan said.

“Well don’t be,” Guy said. “This isn’t the time for it. We need to keep our thoughts pure today. We’re about to be rewarded for our long, grueling efforts. You know what they say about getting what you wished for.”

“I guess so.”

“That’s right. Sometimes you do.”

Dan hung up and put his computer to sleep. He paced to the window and stared through his fleshy, unshaven reflection at the pile of compost at the edge of the yard, watching the food scraps invisibly returning to the wet earth. Ever so slowly the organic material was being devoured by worms and bacteria, entering the downside of the endless cycle of creation and destruction. Life and death, life and death—they followed each other like day and night. At some point, the compost would rise in a new form—a tomato, a cherry blossom—and devour the world’s nutrients in return.

Dan thought about checking his e-mail, but he had checked only moments before. He thought about his credit card bill. He was having trouble keeping his thoughts pure.

So they loved it, he thought. Big deal. What does that mean? Ten months ago, when his screenplay had first begun making the rounds among financiers and casting agents in New York and L.A., word that a group of money people loved it would have been cause for excitement, but he’d since crossed too many false thresholds, approached too many false green lights, to get his hopes up. Along the way, dozens of people had proclaimed their love for the project before ultimately, grudgingly, with great regret, etc., passing. In the movie industry’s spectrum of affection, Dan had come to find, loving something didn’t actually mean that much. It was all hyperbole. If something was “good,” it was generally terrible. If something was “great,” it was not embarrassing. Merely to love something was a form of neutrality at best. It implied fear that someone else might see potential there, and thus it might be worthwhile to buy the author a few lunches, but it foretold no commitment of any kind. In a world of delicate egos, Dan could see how the hyperbole was useful. Loving ensured no one’s feelings got hurt. But he was not deceived by the word anymore either.

The only word that meant anything was “special.” “Special” was the highest praise. He never got “special.”