Anthony and Cassie brought Max home to a nursery that belonged in a magazine shoot: everything was white. Anthony was scared to touch anything for fear of messing it up.

“I know it seems hard to believe,” said Huxley Wilder, “but someday A Room Within will stop selling. Do you have your next idea ready?”

But it didn’t seem possible that the book would ever stop selling. Anthony got royalty checks every six months, enormous royalty checks. The view from the top was distorted, sublime. The money that had come pouring in poured right back out again. Cassie quit her job to care for the baby and to concentrate on her own art. Her taste, once unleashed, was impeccable, expensive. She needed an art studio. They could build one in the back of the house, detached. They had an acre! They may as well put a pool in, why not? And a pool required a pool house. The master bath was outdated. Good shoes cost a lot.

“Even Gone Girl fell off the list eventually. Even The Help,” said Huxley. “Now’s a good time to pitch the next one.”

Anthony wrote a first chapter, an outline. “It’s called Simon’s Rock,” he told Huxley.

“I love it,” said Huxley. “Let’s present it.”

A deal was proffered. A number so big it made Anthony feel anxious. What if he couldn’t follow through? What if he wasn’t capable? He tried to express his doubts to Huxley, but Huxley didn’t want to hear about doubts. Huxley said, “You know what two words a publisher most wants to put on a book jacket?”

Anthony thought about it and said, “Stephen and King?”

“Ha!” said Huxley. “Hilarious, man. But, no. Debut and novel.”

“But this isn’t a debut.”

“Exactly! You had those two words last time. You never get them again, not in your whole career, not ever.”

Anthony was confused. “I don’t understand how that helps me.”

“It doesn’t help you. That’s exactly my point. Debut novels are what every publisher wants. Nothing sells a book like the promise of new blood. So if they’re offering you this fucking insane amount of money for a second book you would be an idiot not to take it.”

“I’m just nervous,” said Anthony. “About selling something before I’ve written it. Does that make you nervous at all?”

“You’d be an idiot,” repeated Huxley. “Not to take it. Let’s do this. Let’s sign, and then let’s go celebrate another amazing Puckett book. Sign now, write later, my man. That’s how the game is played, in the big leagues.”

“It is?”

“Absolutely it is.”

Anthony signed.

Anthony showed Huxley a few more chapters of Simon’s Rock. Huxley took a little time to call back. “It’s good,” Huxley said. But was there a hitch in his voice? “You keep the fuck writing, man. You just keep it up.”

Max turned one. The publisher established a deadline.

“I need more time,” Anthony told Huxley. The deadline was pushed back.

Max turned two. The words wouldn’t come the way they had the first time around.