So now the quiet in the shop seems heavy, isolating. A reminder that a rare moment of quiet is full of dread for me lately, my mind utterly blank of inspiration. Right now, it’s just me and this word, and it should be easy. It should be plain and simple and custom-made and low stakes, nothing like the job I’ve been avoiding for weeks and weeks. Nothing that requires my ideas, my creativity, my specialty.

Sans serif, bold, all caps, no frolicking.

But I feel something, staring down at this little word. Feel something familiar, something I’ve been trying to avoid these days.

I feel those letters doing their work on me. Telling me truths I don’t want to hear.

be you’re blocked, the letters say to me, and I try to blink them away. For a few seconds I blur my vision, try to imagine being decorative, try to imagine what I’d do if I didn’t have to keep my promises to the client. Something in those wide vertexes? Play with the negative space, or . . .

be you’re lonely, the letters interrupt, and my vision sharpens again.

be, they seem to say, you can’t do this after all.

I set down the Micron and take a step back.

And that’s when he comes in.

The thing is, the letters don’t always tell me truths about myself.

Sometimes they tell me truths about other people, and Reid Sutherland is—was—one of those people.