“Oh double and triple shit,” Will screamed, screamed, and screamed, as the hottest, wildest pity overcame him and he felt himself slowing down, stopping his own death, because in the whole cruel universe, he wasn’t going to add to the misery of it all by killing some dumb, stupid creature. The motorcycle skidded, skidded some more, as Will tried to stop in time, his fury and pity almost blinding him. He’d slow down, but not enough. He swerved, avoided the kitten, and was thrown off the cycle just before it slammed into the side of the bridge.

Everything seemed unrealistically still. Will landed on his hands and knees. He was a mess of scrapes and bruises, but he wasn’t hurt badly. And he definitely wasn’t dead. Turning around to look for the kitten, he shouted, “You dumb cat. That’s one of your nine lives.”

And Oversoul Seven, exhausted, sighed, “Look who’s talking.”

Chapter Sixteen

Jeffy-boy’s Uneasiness Grows and Ram-Ram Does a Disappearing Act

When I was finished with what you have read thus far, I stared at the manuscript, appalled beyond description. The characters in the book were discussing me, and quite objectively, with the oddest kind of sympathy for my predicament. This concern added to my anxiety beyond measure. The constant use of third person references to me, “he” this, or “he” that, struck me with a sense of panic. If the analysis of my character hadn’t been so astute, perhaps I wouldn’t have been so bothered, but several passages that I reread described me with a … loving detachment that I found most disconcerting.

All of this represented some important alteration in the pattern of activity thus far; and I recognized this at the time only opaquely, afraid to follow the matter through for fear, I suppose, of where it might lead. But the shock went even deeper than the realization that the relationship between the manuscript and myself was changing. No matter what they were, or how the book was being written, Oversoul Seven and Cyprus were fictional characters. Their criticism, even their awareness of my own existence, somehow upset the very foundations of all my beliefs. I found myself saying, “They have no right to do this, no right at all,” before I realized the implications and irony of my own remark.

Intrusion enough—this weird book and its method of delivery—but I had begun to think that it might be good enough to publish, without, of course, giving any hint of the way it was produced. This made me wonder how many other manuscripts had been written in the same manner, with the “authors” smart enough to keep their mouths shut and cut out any passages that might give them away.