Should she visit her mom and Gloria? She could be at their Victorian farmhouse in Napa before midnight. Driving through the Central Valley, Anna always felt like a horde of zombies could wander over the brown hills at any moment.

Anna had no skills to survive a zombie apocalypse. John certainly did. He could probably start a fire with two rocks or intimidate them with his biceps. A road trip with John would be fun, she thought. She didn’t know his taste in music, but she wanted to find out. He would have interesting stories to tell from his travels. She pictured the two of them driving somewhere off into the sunset like at the end of a movie. But like a scratch in the film marring the image, she remembered her behavior at the premiere party.

Jenny sighed. “Bad news first will be more confusing, but okay... Vampires.”

“Vampires in the Valley. What the hell, Jenny?”

“Stop being weird. Vampires are the bad news. Specifically, The Final Vampire, and he needs your help.”

“Oh my God, no—”

“They want you to direct the movie!” Jenny shrieked. “They fired the other guy, and they’re desperate.”

“The producers aren’t terrible. Dan Richards is pretty decent.”

Anna couldn’t rely on Jenny for a job. She had relied on her friend for so much already.

“It’s okay to ask for help,” Jenny said. “If you take the job, we can work together. I’m going to be on set too. It would be just like the old days. They want us on a plane in two days.”

It was vampires or the orange goo. This CGI fest of an almost-horror B movie or the spacespeak. She missed being behind the camera. She missed being on a soundstage with actors rehearsing their lines. Everyone coming together to make something out of nothing. She even missed the bad coffee. And she could get out of Los Angeles. A new beginning. Anna had always been good at cleaning up other people’s messes. Any director who successfully turned the production around wouldn’t just be well-thought-of; she would have successfully engineered a comeback. “I’ll do it.”

Jenny shrieked in delight.

#

JOHN RECEIVED A CALL Monday morning, confirming his appointment with Tom Melton. As instructed, John made his way to the valet parking stand in the front of the impressive five-story building. He winced when his car chugged up the small rise of the U-shaped driveway. The last time he’d pitched at this agency, he had parked in the cavernous garage across the street. The walk to the main building had taken so long, he’d been late for the appointment.

John slammed the driver’s-side door shut. It creaked loudly in protest. He handed the keys to the teenage valet, who scowled as he took them gingerly from John’s hand.