“Okay, enough.” Grant steps forward and slaps his hands down on the counter, at least until the Gifter eyes them with raised brows and pursed lips. He backs away and clears his throat. “I don’t know what your deal is, but you can’t imagine the nightmare we’ve been through. It’s been harrowing. So I am begging you, please, what can you do to help us?”
“Aww.” The Gifter lifts a hand to their heart, pouting sympathetically at Grant. And just like that, they snap out of it. “Nothing. A wish is a wish. A book is a book. Either live it out to the end or, I don’t know, make Anna Matthews stop writing it.”
“That’s so unfair!” I say. “This isn’t what I wished for and you know it.”
“This isexactlywhat you wished for,” says the Gifter. “It’s not my fault you weren’t specific. No take-backsies.” They resume tapping randomly on the iPad. “Now, if there are no further questions—”
“Somany questions!” I protest.
They throw their head back in annoyance. “God, what is with the constant pestering? I gave you agift. Like, if a strangerwalks up to you and says,Here’s four million dollars, you’re welcome, are you seriously going to interrogate them about that?”
“No,” I grumble, precisely as Grant says, “Absolutely.” We look at each other in surprise, and not a little judgment on Grant’s part.
The Gifter sighs. “Look, I’m sure you’ll be fine. This ain’t my firstI wish I were in a bookrodeo. Then again … most people are smart enough to pick something published, something familiar. Quite a gamble when you don’t even know the plot.” They arch one deeply critical eyebrow.
“But what aboutafter?” asks Grant. “Does it really all just go away? Say, for instance, we …”
“Killed one of the characters,” I finish for him. Grant flinches. “It would be like that never happened, right? No consequences in our real lives?”
The Gifter’s eyes somehow manage to brighten even more. “Ooh, you’rebad!” they say gleefully. “But yeah. Once it’s over,poof, it’s gone from your life. You return to regularly scheduled programming, and the characters—the ones that survive, anyway—go back to wherever characters go when we’re not reading about them. No harm, no foul, no jail time.”
Grant exhales, and it’s like I can hear the tiny bit of tension leaving his body. “Great. Okay. I just want to move on and forget this ever happened.”
The Gifter snorts. “Well, you won’t be doing that. I never mess with people’s memories. How else would my wish makers learn their lessons?”
“But I’m not the wish maker!” Grant argues. “I’m just a person who got dragged along.”
“Doesn’t matter. The story works just like a black hole. If you’re far enough away, you’ll float on by and forget all about it. But if you get too close, you willdefinitelyremember.” They make a monstrous slurping noise. “That’s you getting sucked into thestory. You’re involved now, bestie. The only way out is through. It’s science.”
“It’snotscience,” says Grant, raising his voice. The Gifter fixes him with a dispassionate stare. “And honestly, I’m not convinced you know anything about cosmology.”
“Don’t listen to him. Your makeup looks great,” I say, stepping in front of Grant. “We’re not trying to make trouble. We’re just hoping to getoutof it. Isn’t there anything else you can offer us? Please?”
With a sunny smile, they say, “Yes.Don’t stress so much.You’re the main character. She almost probably won’t kill you on purpose.”
I think the air has gone out of the room. “Almost …probably?”
The Gifter throws me a helpless shrug. “I mean, yeah. Sorry, honeybun. I don’t do promises.”
Grant takes in a shaky breath. “But what about me? I’m not fictional. I’m not supposed to be here at all, and yet …” I can almost hearnow I’m a bludgeoner on the rundying in his throat.
The Gifter assesses him with a narrowed gaze, drumming sparkly fingernails on the counter. “In that case, Icanmakeyoua promise. But you must listen very carefully.” They lean forward, their expression drawn in utmost solemnity, and whisper as if to impart some great secret, “It sucks to suck.”
We both stand there, silent and slack-jawed, as the Gifter smiles and pushes the coffee cups toward us. “Anything else?”
I’ve got nothing. Grant’s voice comes out strangled. “A cinnamon raisin bagel. Please.”
• • •
WE FIND OURSELVESback on a park bench, consumed by existential dread. The coffees between us have gone cold, the bagel uneaten.
“So,” I finally say. “Do you believe me now?”
Grant is quiet for a moment. “I don’t know what I believe,” he says. “Maybe that I’ve had a stroke and this is some kind of last-hurrah coma dream before I fade into oblivion. That seems like the best-case scenario.”
I pinch his arm and he jerks away, swearing. “You can’t feel pain in dreams,” I point out.
“Again, not true. Seriously, where are you getting your dream facts from?”
