My phone rang right next to my ear, and I jerked awake, blinking sleep out of my eyes. I groaned and pressed the heel of my palm to my head, trying to remember just what I’d done to get such an awful headache. Right, I thought, the martinis. Being a lightweight and taking sleeping pills wasn’t a good combination. It wasn’t exactly a habit, but it wasn’t the opposite of a habit either. My brain throbbed and I sat very still, hoping the pain might fade on its own. Never again, I thought bleakly.

The phone screamed again and I jumped. I grabbed for it and got ready to complain to whomever was on the other end about them waking me up so early in the morning, but I saw that the clock on my cell phone read three thirty in the afternoon. I sighed, rubbed my face hard as if to scrub away my misery and tiredness, and answered with a strangled, “Hello?”

“Really?” my agent, Damien, asked. I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me or if he was concerned. It was impossible to know with him. “You’re still asleep?”

“No,” I lied, trying to hide my yawn.

“There’s a reason you’re a writer and not an actor, Lance.”

“You got me,” I admitted sullenly. “Now what’s going on?”

“I have a promotional idea to run by you. And,” he continued, speaking over my groan of frustration, “before you say no, I need you to at least hear me out on it. Deal?”

“No.”

“Lance...”

“Damien, no,” I scowled. “I’ve told you before that I don’t do promotional stunts or any of that kind of bullshit. My work speaks for itself. It’s good enough on its own. Or at least, that’s what you always told me before.”

“That was when you were actually producing work.” I could hear him shuffling around; he was undoubtedly digging through the messy stack of manuscripts and letters on his desk. For whatever reason, he was a steadfast Luddite when it came to his work; he was in his thirties, but he still refused to read or edit anything on a computer. I didn’t want to even imagine how many trees he’d killed just so he could handwrite all of his complaints on everyone’s manuscripts. He’d probably single-handedly cleared a rain forest over the course of his career.

“I told you,” I said, glancing around my room, trying to see through the darkness created by my extra-thick curtains, “I’m working on the next book.”

“You’ve been telling me that for four years, Lance.” Damien’s voice was patient but clipped. The two of us had been working together since the beginning of my career, way back when I dropped out of college at twenty and dedicated myself to writing. Over the past nine years, I’d gotten to know him pretty well, and I could usually tell exactly how he was feeling, no matter how close to the vest he played it.

In this case, I could tell he was extremely irritated.

I couldn’t blame him for it, either; he was right. My young-adult fantasy series, The Books of Veracity, had come to a pretty abrupt standstill. After my short stories about the characters had gotten a lot of attention online and caught Damien’s eye, the books had been coming out at a pretty regular clip until five years previously. The series was called a lot of things: well crafted, wildly popular, a sensation, and—above all—clearly unfinished. I had fans writing to me, begging me to continue and to get around to releasing the fifth book already, but I hadn’t gotten around to it.

Frankly, I was stuck. And had been for a long time.

That didn’t exactly inspire sympathy in Damien, and I couldn’t blame him; I was one of his best-selling clients. Or at least, I had been, and I had the potential to be one again. My smashing success had dulled to a trickle. People were moving on. The series wasn’t forgotten, per se, but the fans had gotten bored. Many of them had likely grown out of the young adult phase of their lives and moved on to other, more grown-up fantasy series like A Song of Ice and Fire or The Dresden Files. My fan letters still came in, but it was at a slow crawl. There seemed to be only so many times fans could reread the same four books, and newer successes had taken over the minds of new readers. No other series was experiencing the same earth-shattering success mine had, but they had something I didn’t: staying power.

Well, that, and authors who could actually produce work.

“I’m not doing any promotional crap,” I said stubbornly. “I did that for the first book, and I hated it.”

“But it’s part of what made the books popular,” Damien explained, feigning patience.

“I thought that it was the brilliant writing.”

Damien scoffed. “You and I both know that talent has very little to do with it. Lots of talented writers die in the gutters, unnoticed. You got lucky. And we both knew how to make your work shine.”

I sighed. I couldn’t deny that fact. “Okay, yes. True. But I’m already doing that one thing, remember? The children’s hospital visit thing?”

“Lance. That was this morning. You missed it.”

I groaned. “What?”

“Yeah. You literally missed out on reading to kids who are fucking riddled with cancer. That’s the kind of person you are now.”

“Oh, shit.” I buried my face in my pillow, trying to think, but between the headache, the way my stomach was turning, and my natural ineptitude, I was struggling to come up with anything to say that could solve the problem. Eventually, I weakly turned my head and asked, “Can I go now? We could just say I was delayed by important writer business or something.”

“If you were doing important writer business, I’d have book five on my desk right now,” Damien snorted. “And no. I got a replacement. I’ve learned to always have a backup in place for you.”

I ignored the dig and sat up. I knew I had no right to feel indignant, but I did nonetheless. “Who did you get?” I asked, not bothering to keep the offense out of my voice. It wouldn’t have worked anyway; Damien knew me too well. And if he wasn’t going to go out of his way to play nice, then neither was I.

“Ben Hayfield.”

“Ben Hayfield? As in, Bentley Hayfield?” I sniffed in disdain. “You replaced me with Bentley Hayfield?”

“I did,” he said simply. “He was available...“

“Of course he was,” I murmured.

“...and he did a great job,” he continued. “Ben has a way with kids. And his books have been gaining tons of traction, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“But not as much traction as mine,” I complained. I knew I sounded like a petulant child, but I didn’t care.

“Are you asking me if he matches you in sheer numbers?” Damien asked. He sighed. I could practically see him rubbing his forehead in exasperation. “No. You know that.”

“That’s what I thought,” I said, trying not to sound quite as smug as I felt.

“But that can’t keep you going forever,” my agent continued. “You can’t hide behind good sales forever, you know. Especially when they’ve slowed down the way they have.”

He was right enough about that. The royalty checks I got were coming in slower and smaller with every passing month. I was still selling, but not at the rate I once was. People weren’t buying my books anymore. They’d moved on to the next flavor-of-the-week story. I had assumed, when I started, that my work had some sort of infinite staying power, and maybe it did, to a limited extent. But what I’d expected wasn’t possible. I couldn’t keep people excited when they were waiting indefinitely on my next book.

“Ben has been selling well lately,” Damien explained, and his voice sounded surprisingly gentle. “It’s nothing against you, man, but fans are getting antsy. You can’t expect them to only read one series. Especially newcomers to the genre. The other guys are on a...let’s say...upward trajectory that you haven’t been able to manage lately.”

I rubbed my eyes. “I know,” I finally mumbled, frustration twisting my stomach. “I know, I know, I know.”

“It’s not a value judgment. You can fix it,” he assured me. “It doesn’t need to be anything elaborate, either. Just a little PR event. Remind people you’re still around. Get them talking and excited for the next book.” And then start actually writing, you douche, he didn’t say, but I could hear the words underlining everything he’d said.

I sat up. My head felt like a novelty bobblehead. I put a hand to my forehead in a desperate attempt to stop the room from swaying, and it took me a second to remember the movement was all thanks to my poorly planned inebriation in the first place. “Right.” I closed my eyes in an effort to concentrate; multitasking seemed especially impossible at the moment. “Right. PR event. What are we talking about here? Local book signing? Going to a different kids’ hospital?”

“Well, Fantasticon is coming up again,” he said, speaking quickly, as if he was worried I was going to start complaining again. “You always have your panel there, and I think it helps a lot. Plus, it’s a great place to dig up new inspiration.”

My aggravation lessened. As much as I didn’t like sitting in front of a bunch of people who took my work so seriously that it was actually a little bit frightening, it was still fun to see so many people dedicating themselves to my work. Looking out over a sea of excited faces never got old. Plus, I was a lot better at it than people tended to give me credit for. I wasn’t good in front of individuals, where I tended to trip over my own tongue and end up with my foot directly in my mouth, but talking in front of an audience was a breeze.

Not only that, but the glow of adoration stayed with me for days to the point where even my dingy apartment felt light and full of life. There was something inspiring about the joy that Fantasticon brought to my fans, and I didn’t exactly have to do much when I was there.

Plus, Damien had said the magic word: inspiration. That was what had been so seriously lacking in the past few years, and it was sort of sweet of him to acknowledge it. Considering what he defined inspiration to be—as he so delicately put it—“a giant, steaming crock of horse shit,”—it was clear he was trying to make an effort to connect with me, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

“Okay.” I tried to inject disgruntled impatience into my voice, but I seemed unsuccessful. “So I’m doing Fantasticon again. That’s...doable. A table and a panel. Not too tough.”

Damien cleared his throat. Rarely did he sound nervous or unsure of himself; in fact, the only time he put on that voice was when he thought he might get fired. “Right,” he said, overly casual. “Fantasticon is a piece of cake. Which is why I figured a little giveaway to go along with it wouldn’t be too bad.”

I frowned. “A giveaway?” I thought back to the piles of merchandise I’d seen in stores. It wasn’t like a lot of it was terribly expensive, nor was it hard to find. I couldn’t imagine what Damien could offer that fans would actually fight for. “What are you giving away? Special editions or something? Or do I just need to sign some shit?”

“It’s a little more...complicated than that.” His hesitation was making me nervous. “I was actually thinking that it would be good if you could connect with your fans on a more personal level. Let them see the real you. I’ve noticed that interaction between fans and creators can be huge in terms of success, and it might help you see just how real everything is right now, how much they want this next book.”

“I thought that’s what the panel is for.”

“It is,” he assured me quickly. “But anyone can get into a panel, and, well...there’s something to be said for rarity, you know?”

I almost hung up. I knew I didn’t want to hear whatever he was going to tell me. In fact, whatever he was about to say was likely going to piss me off. But I couldn’t do that. It felt rude, and what I lacked in follow-through and any ability to care for myself I made up for with manners. I would never be able to bring myself to hang up on my agent without at least hearing him through.

Instead, in the most patient voice I could muster, I said, “What is your idea?”

“Right.” Damien seemed almost as pleased as I was to stop beating around the bush. “Well, I was thinking about having a contest.”

“What kind? I don’t have to judge it, do I?” The idea made my knotted, nauseous stomach tighten even more. I could never stand judging people. Even being asked to read over a friend’s essay in college was enough to push me into a virtual panic attack.

“No, no. I’m not an idiot. I’m pretty sure your brain would explode.” I heard more shuffling, then a clatter, a curse, and Damien’s voice from far away yelling, “Janet, where’s the winning essay?” There was a pause, then he added, “And have you seen where I put all the hotel reservation information?”

There was another clatter. “Sorry,” Damien explained. “Dropped the phone.”

“I’m amazed you didn’t lose it,” I said dryly. “It sounds like you’ve already held the contest, huh?”

“I did.” There was no hint of shame in his voice.

That only annoyed me further. “Come on, man!” I snapped. “The least you could do is tell me what you’re thinking of doing before you go ahead and make it happen behind my back!”

“But you wouldn’t have agreed.”

“Then don’t do it!”

“But it’s a good idea!”

I closed my eyes and reminded myself that sales would never improve if I murdered my agent. “Couldn’t you have just tried to talk me into it?”

“I didn’t want to waste the time and effort,” he said. “And you would have given in eventually, you know that. No one can resist my charms for that long.”

I didn’t tell him I thought he was wildly overestimating his so-called charms. “So what exactly was the contest?”

“We had people write essays about how you and your work impacted their lives. Then we picked the best one.”

I waited, but there was no follow-up. “I think you’re leaving out the part where I have to do something I’ll hate.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Still looking for everything.” He sighed, apparently giving up. “Look. I’ll warn you right now: you’re not going to love the idea. But it’ll look fantastic. And having some one-on-one time with a fan might even get the creative juices flowing again.”

“How much one-on-one time?”

“Well,” he hedged, “you see...I thought it would be most beneficial if it was, say, two days.”

“Two days?” I asked, aghast.

“More like two half-days,” he amended. “And one night, which you won’t really have to share with each other. The idea is for you guys to have a nice dinner together, then go to extremely separate and extremely high-quality hotel rooms, have a very luxurious breakfast, and then fly first-class to Fantasticon.”

It had been a long time since I’d spent that much time with anybody all at once, much less a total stranger. His buzzwords didn’t make it sound any better, no matter how noble his intentions. “No,” I said stubbornly. “I’m not doing it. It’s so...Jesus, Damien, it’s degrading. It’s like I’m begging for attention from my own fans. Doesn’t that seem a little desperate?”

“No. It seems like a nice gesture from their favorite author. Besides, if there ever is or was a time to be desperate, I think now is it. You’re still at the top of the pile, but just barely. You really, really need to appeal to your fan base right now.” The constant shuffling of papers stopped, and he sighed. I heard a thump and a creak, the telltale sound of Damien collapsing into his leather office chair. I could see him in my mind, pinching the bridge of his nose, surrounded by mountains of paper and hastily scrawled notes. “Look, I get it. I get that you don’t want to do this. But I’m doing it for you. I’ve got other clients, including some really successful ones. You taking a hit wouldn’t really do much damage to me.”

Stung, I said, “I’m waiting for a ‘but’ to come along any time now.”

I could almost hear his tired smile. “But,” he said softly, “you’re my friend. You have been from the beginning. We started an empire together, man, and this is still just small potatoes. You could have movie deals, tons of merchandise, maybe even a side series. And I want that for you because you deserve it, and I care about you. I want to make it all the way to the top, and I want you to be the person standing right next to me the whole time.”

My heart softened. As aggravating as he could be to work with, Damien really was my best friend and the biggest cheerleader I had since I started working on writing professionally. He was willing to do anything for me, and he was pretty much always right. As far as business went, I trusted him completely.

I just didn’t want to do the damn thing.

“Damien, you know I’m not good with people,” I said. “Especially on an individual level. I’m a ‘good in front of five hundred, bad in front of five’ kind of guy. And I would even say that calling me ‘good’ in front of anyone would be generous. Are we sure this won’t just...backfire?”

“That’s why we wanted to get a superfan,” Damien explained. “And we can have a couple media outlets talk to them, have them go on about how great you are. Maybe even share their essay, if I can ever find the damn thing.” I heard a couple papers shifting, a clunk, and a muffled shout of, “Janet! I need another coffee! And as many napkins as you can find!”

“Jesus, man. Just print it out.”

“I only have it in hard copy.”

I rolled my eyes. “You had them submit a hard copy?”

“Well, yeah. I’m not going to strain my eyes reading off my computer for days on end. Who does that?”

“Pretty much the entire world, Damien. And did I hear you say you lost the hotel information for Fantasticon?”

“I didn’t lose it,” he said stubbornly. “I don’t lose things. I misplaced it. Temporarily.”

“Dude, just type it up and email it to yourself!”

“No! I don’t like computers. They’re supposed to give you cancer, you know.”

“That’s microwaves. Or smart phones.” I wrinkled my brow, thinking. “Or maybe it was too much red wine. I honestly can’t remember. Everything gives you cancer.”

“And you wonder why I hate everything.”

“You know, it’s kind of annoying that you’re allowed to hate the entire world and everything in it, but I’m not,” I told him.

“Yeah, well, I don’t have anyone to impress. I work behind the scenes. You fucked up by being a creative type.”

“You do remember that I make money for you, right?” I asked, irritated.

“You’d make more if you’d do even half the stuff I tell you to do,” he shot back.

I still can’t say why, but that was the moment my frustration boiled over. “If you think I’m doing such a bad job, maybe my world isn’t worth saving,” I snapped.

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to! I can tell that’s what you think! And besides, you replaced me today, why can’t you replace me now?”

“Because we already set up the contest and selected a winner, and all of it is based on you,” Damien reasoned. “We did this for your work and your fans, Lance. This isn’t something I can just pass off to someone else.”

I folded my arms, thinking.

On the one hand, he had a decent point about this helping with my sales, and it wasn’t like I wanted to run away from my job. I liked my job just fine. It may have been tough a lot of the time, but I had to admit that I was, effectively, living the dream of pretty much any writer out there in the world. I was insanely lucky in that regard, and I was also lucky to have fans willing to stick with me after so long.

But on the other hand...

I could already imagine myself across from a bright-eyed, happy, curious youth who adored me, someone who wanted to know everything about me, even someone who might want to emulate me, and it was mortifying. I could see the faltering smile when I introduced myself while they took in the bags under my eyes. I could hear their nervously stuttered questions I would only answer with grunted half-answers. There would be faltering, awkward silences, the clatter of silverware on china while the two of us silently begged for the waiter to come by so we could ask for the check or at least have someone else share in the tension. It wasn’t like I had anything to offer. All I could imagine would be pure disappointment.

“I don’t think I can,” I said. My voice faltered more than I wanted it to. “Damien, I really, really appreciate what you’re trying to do, but...”

“Lance,” he said firmly. His voice was hard, but there was a frantic edge. He knew the conversation was coming to a close. “Look, man, I get it. It’s awkward, it’s weird, and it’s something you’ve never done before. But it’s a great opportunity for you and for someone who really, really loves and appreciates everything that you do. Don’t let them down like this, dude. You need to be there, you know? You need to follow through for them.”

“You shouldn’t have signed me up for something I didn’t want to do,” I said. I was too tired to even be angry. The overwhelming emotion crashing around my still-aching brain was self-loathing. “I’m not doing it. I’m sorry, but I’m just not doing it.”

He made a noise halfway between a sigh and a growl. “Okay,” he snapped, “fine. I get it. You don’t want to do this. But at least read the essay, please? A lot of people put a lot of work into writing about how much they love your shit. The least you can do is take a look.”

I rubbed at my eyes, but I couldn’t think of a good reason to say no. “Fine,” I muttered. “Email it to me.”

“You know I’m not going to do that.”

I slid back under the covers. “Fine. Can you fax it at least? Or will that give you cancer too?”

“Ha ha,” he grumbled sarcastically. “I’ll fax it as soon as I find it.”

“I’m still not going to do it,” I reminded him.

“Sure. Whatever.” Before I could retort, he hung up.

I stared down at the phone in my hand, trying to summon up some sort of reaction: offense, maybe, or at least minor annoyance. But I couldn’t.

Imagining the disappointment of my supposed “superfan” was bad, but it wasn’t as bad as the image slowly developing in my mind. I thought of all the kids in the hospital that morning. I could practically see their strained, sick little faces, from little kids clutching stuffed animals to tweens resentfully sulking in their beds, irritated at being in the pediatric ward. I could hear their rapt breathing as they waited, hope barely daring to tiptoe into their pounding hearts.

But most of all, I could imagine their faces when I didn’t walk through the door. I could imagine what they would look like when they saw Bentley fucking Hayfield standing in the doorway, smiling his naturally charismatic smile. And I didn’t think they’d be disappointed at all.

They’d be elated. Hell, they’d be relieved.

After all, who would want someone like me around?