by April Henry
For the past few days, he’d obediently climbed under the covers as soon as Derrick turned off the light. But he didn’t sleep. Instead, he waited impatiently until the cabin was silent. Then he got back on the treadmill and wrote.
Now, working mostly by feel, Bob rolled a crisp new piece of paper into the typewriter. A faint, milky light reflected into the room from the snow, but it was enough. By now he was touch typing with ease. In some ways, it felt better to type in the dark when he couldn’t even see what he wrote. No temptation to ball up the page the way he used to.
This second version of Eyes of the Forest was more measured. Tighter. Not that it lacked for twists and turns, but they weren’t telegraphed. The sober version also made a hell of a lot more sense than Derrick’s stream-of-conscious version. The new chapters were hidden in short stacks under the treadmill.
There were two of everything now. Two Jancys, two Rowans, two Prince Orwens. They overlapped and intertwined of course. But he was damned if he was going to give this kid his best stuff. Derrick seemed perfectly happy with the pages Bob just dashed off without too much thought.
And letting all that crazy stuff loose was making something flower in Bob. He was doing the best writing he ever had.
Twice over.
DERRICK
Keep It in Character
Saturday night, and the Jolly Pirate tavern in Cascadia was packed. Guilds were holding meetings, elves were celebrating a name day, and adventuring groups were rehashing that day’s battles.
Rickard pulled the door closed behind him. The room was lit with candle holders and lanterns—both powered by LED bulbs. Period authenticity took a back seat to the fire marshal.
Crowding the long benches along the tables were lords and ladies, commoners and craftsmen, spies and soldiers, and the occasional elf or ogre. They were dicing, playing cards, or exchanging in-game gold for treats like bread or pie that been prepared OOG and then brought here. Some wore handmade costumes that looked it while others’ garb featured real ermine or hand-forged chain mail. The young man standing just inside the door felt his point of view begin to shift from Rickard’s to Derrick’s. In real life the players were college students, Uber drivers, exterminators, and architects. They worked at banks and call centers. More than one was a veteran with PTSD who said LARPing helped them deal.
It was time to spread the word about the once-in-a-lifetime chance to read R. M. Haldon’s new book. Since Derrick had started streaming the Haldon Cam, the first chapter alone had already sold over a hundred copies, and most buyers had come back for chapters two and three. The feedback on Reddit had completely turned around.
Derrick had already ordered custom-made armor from Austria for a price that would have bought a good used car, but it wouldn’t be ready for another month. Tonight the only evidence of his newfound wealth was the new scarlet-lined black cloak he’d bought on Etsy.
Everyone was drinking. Some players were tavern jockeys who would spend most of their weekend here. But just like the candles had been replaced with their LED counterparts, the spirits were actually juice. As the night wore on, a few players would still pretend to be drunk. Sometimes hookups were blamed on too much mead.
Derrick felt a cold wind as the door opened again. A shout went up from the tables. It was Crispin, also known as Rickard’s father. OOG, Crispin was Curtis and still Derrick’s dad. His father had had custody on every LARP weekend. Derrick had been playing alongside him since he was eight, in one of the limited roles children were allowed to take. Since turning sixteen, Derrick had been able to be a full-fledged PC, moving quickly up the ranks thanks to all his IG knowledge. And it didn’t hurt that the character Rickard was based on had gained more importance with each book.
On weekdays Curtis was an accountant, but in Cascadia, Crispin was a silver-tongued rogue working both ends against the middle. He was tall, like Derrick, but more muscular. Even though Derrick thought they looked alike, new players always seemed surprised to find out they were real-life father and son.
“What ho, friends!” Crispin cried. He was grinning, his arms around Lady Katarina and a stone elf named Sheena. As Cascadia’s founder, he drew women like flowers drew bees.
He clapped one hand on Derrick’s shoulder as he made his way to the center of the crowd. Derrick felt a familiar tangle of jealousy and love. But then he remembered. The coins in his father’s purse had no value OOG. But the money Derrick was making from selling Bob’s work could be spent anyplace.
Turning away, he pushed himself deeper into the tavern. A small crowd was gathered around Nellique. In front of her were a number of wire tools. Sticking two in the lock of a small wooden box, she began to manipulate them, her tongue poking between her teeth. While Nellique had had to buy the legerdemain skill to become a locksmith, it didn’t guarantee she would actually be able to get into the box. To open the lock, she had to pick it for real.
New people came to Cascadia expecting a game, but this was as close to real life as you could get. You didn’t roll dice to see if you had the charisma necessary to pull a great con, or the dexterity to hide in the shadows, or the intelligence to figure out a secret code. You had to actually be able to do those things. If you wanted to strike an enemy with your arrow, then you had to physically throw your arrow representation and hit them with it.
As Derrick cast his eyes over the crowd, he heard an exaggerated evil laugh. Before he looked, he knew it belonged to Blackheart Doombringer. Inwardly Derrick groaned when he saw he was still wearing the same half-assed costume made from an inside-out T-shirt. What an idiot. With that laugh, he was just putting people on their guard. He should be portraying himself as a valiant man wanting to right the world’s wrongs. In fact, the best bad guys probably considered themselves good ones.
It was clear Blackheart hoped to begin near the top of Cascadia’s hierarchy. But that wasn’t the way it worked. New players had to put time and effort into their costumes, always stay in character, and take their role-playing seriously. Those who did found it wasn’t long until the old-timers noticed, hiring them for a quest or as bodyguards. With luck, tales of their adventures might someday be retold by storytellers over cups of spiced cider.
Putting aside his annoyance, Derrick zeroed in on Baltus, sitting alone in a back corner. In real life—not that Derrick thought Cascadia was any less real—Baltus was named Stan, and Stan was a lawyer who drove a brand-new BMW. Which meant he must own some serious coin OOG. And he was in his sixties, meaning he probably didn’t spend much time on Reddit.
“What ho, Baltus?” Derrick called out.
“Come sit with me.” Baltus patted the empty bench next to him.
After they exchanged their respective stories of that day’s adventures, Derrick leaned nearer, conspiratorial. “Have you heard that the Great Storyteller is working on the next volume to his saga?” Great Storyteller was their name for R. M. Haldon. In game, out-of-game things were referred to by other names. Pens were quills. Cars were dragons. Phones were magic boxes. The internet was the mist market.
Stan waved a hand. “That’s been bandied about since I was knee-high to a steed.”
“Nay, ’tis true. And it is being sold segment by segment.”
“What? You mean like online?”
A woman in a wimple turned her head at the forbidden word. “Keep it in character please,” she murmured.
Derrick continued. “Not on the mist market, but its darker twin.” How to put it? “The um, the shadowy mesh. For the coin of the realm which is known as a bit.”
Baltus’s forehead wrinkled. “You mean for Bit”—Derrick laid a hand on his arm, and he lowered his voice. “For Bitcoin on the dark web?” When Derrick nodded, the other man reared back. “Why wouldst the Maker do that?”
“Does he not need coin, the same as any man?” It wasn’t even exactly a lie.
“Nay! You blaspheme! He is no mere mortal.”
Derrick was unsure how much Stan was joking. Among the original
players of Cascadia, R. M. Haldon was seen as something close to a god. What would Stan think if he could see Bob now, plodding along on a treadmill dressed in sagging sweats?
Derrick shrugged. “It has been too long since the Great Storyteller told a new story. People sate their urges with tales from other gods.”
“What need has he to offer his stories on the shadowy mesh? Can he not just use the market square as he has always done?”
“These are more exclusive. And more”—Derrick rubbed his fingers together, the universal sign for expensive.
After looking around, Stan leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I would give a lot to read Eyes of the Forest.”
“Then check the Red Thread.” Red Thread was IG code for Reddit. “And follow the clues you find there.”
“Excuse me, then,” Stan said, getting to his feet. “I shall go to my dragon and check my magic box.”
Derrick spent the next few hours dropping hints. And by the time he surreptitiously checked his own magic box in his dragon, another twelve buyers had purchased the first chapter.
BOB
Haldon Cam
Shoulders heaving, Bob bent over, braced his hands on his knees, and tried to catch his breath. It wasn’t easy doing jumping jacks.
Not to mention when doing them was entirely someone else’s idea.
“Okay,” Joanne said from the doorway, out of reach of the camera. Today she was wearing a fur coat Bob thought was actually made of real fur from some poor unfortunate animals. He was no expert in women’s fashion, but now that he was making good money for them, Joanne seemed intent on spending it. Every time he saw her, she had on some new, expensive-looking outfit. “The next one says, ‘Do the funky chicken.’”
Derrick was off LARPing, so Joanne was the one minding Bob. He much preferred Derrick.
Bob groaned. “What is that even supposed to look like?” His sweatshirt was sticking to the small of his back.
Joanne exhaled impatiently. “I think you’re supposed to squat and walk around with your thumbs tucked in your armpits, flapping your arms.” She demonstrated with the arm that wasn’t holding the stun gun. “You know. Like a chicken.”
Bob didn’t move.
For an incentive, Joanne pressed the button on the side of the stun gun, out of sight of the camera. A white bolt of current shot between the two poles with a tat-tat-tat that sounded like rapid fireworks.
He flinched. Derrick loved him for his writing. Joanne didn’t love him for anything, not even for the money that had made her new fur coat possible.
“Hurry up. They’re paying three hundred dollars.”
A few days after the Haldon Cam went live, someone had offered money. Not to buy the first chapter, but to watch Bob do push-ups. Derrick had said no, but Joanne had overruled him. As far as Bob could tell, Joanne enjoyed the extra dollop of humiliation it added to his situation.
And once she forced Bob to do them, with some off-camera persuasion from the stun gun (Bob managed five before he had to switch to his knees), the floodgates opened. It turned out people would pay a lot to watch Bob (or someone who at least bore a strong resemblance to Bob) do a wide variety of things. Dance like John Travolta. (For that, he’d just pointed in various directions while swiveling his hips.) Play air guitar. Do the can-can.
Now Bob tucked his thumbs in his armpits, bent his knees, and shuffled around, flapping his elbows. It felt strange, and it wasn’t just because he was pretending to be a chicken while being broadcast on some secret corner of the internet. It also felt strange because the spare tire around his middle was truly disappearing. Almost three weeks on the treadmill, and his new nearly carb-free diet was having an effect. He thought he was down at least ten pounds. The new sweats Joanne had brought Bob when she came to give Derrick a break were just an XL.
Bob’s knees were protesting. Finally, he straightened to his full height. “That’s enough. I can’t do it anymore.”
Joanne shrugged. “Okay. Let’s see what the next one is.”
“I’m not just talking about the chicken! I mean I’m not going to keep shaking my money maker or marching around like a German soldier. I’m not a marionette. I’m a person!” He pointed at the camera. “I’m not their dancing monkey!”
Whoever was watching this could not hear his complaints. Derrick kept the sound off in case Bob pleaded for help and someone listened.
“Oh wait, I think that’s on the list.” Joanne looked down at her phone.
To his horror, Bob realized she wasn’t joking. “I’m supposed to be writing, Joanne. Don’t you remember? This is just getting in the way of my finishing Eyes of the Forest.”
Joanne shrugged. “Derrick’s got several chapters in reserve. And right now, we’re making nearly as much on this as we are on the chapters.”
“Please, Joanne. Please let me go back to the book.” Even the fake book was slowly starting to not be such a fake. Letting go of all his expectations was turning out to be perversely useful.
“First you have to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to somebody named Mabel. I’ll turn on the sound for that. They want you to look right at the camera, and they want a lot of enthusiasm.”
Exhaustion weighted his bones. “No. I’m not going to. That’s enough.”
Joanne grabbed his wrist and yanked him out of camera range. The next thing he felt was the stun gun against his neck.
Before she could press the button, he yelled, “Okay! Okay!”
“And look cheerful!” Joanne poised a thumb over her phone. “I’m turning on the sound, but if you say anything but the lyrics, I will stun you and I won’t stop.”
Stepping back into the camera’s range, Bob pulled his lips up into a rictus grin. At least the song was mercifully short. “Happy birthday, dear Mabel. Happy birthday to you.” His voice cracked as he finished the last line.
Joanne clicked the button on her phone to turn the sound off again. “Okay, just one more, Bob, and then you can write. I need you to pee like a dog.”
His face went hot. “I’m not going to pee on camera!”
She shrugged. “Just lift your leg and pretend. And then I’ll let you write until it’s time to go to bed.”
“I’m not doing it.” Bob forced himself to confront the truth that had been nagging at him since he first woke up in this room. “I mean, let’s be realistic. You two are never going to let me go, are you? As soon as the book is done, you’ll kill me.”
Joanne made a scoffing sound. “Oh, stop being so dramatic. Once the book is done, we’ll let you go.”
He made a raspberry noise. “Isn’t that what every kidnapper says?”
“But you don’t understand.” Her grin was flat. “That day you met Derrick, he recorded you guys thinking up the whole plan. Who’s going to listen to you once they realize you were a willing participant? What’s happening now is exactly what you wanted. What you talked to me about endlessly.” She moved her hand like a mouth flapping open and closed. “Blah, blah, I’ve got writer’s block, blah, blah, I wish I could write. Do you know how sick I got of your whining? By the time this is over, you’ll finally have the book done. Your publisher will be happy. Your fans will be happy, especially the ones who got it early. And you’ve even lost some weight. Frankly, all of us are already winning.” She shrugged. “But if it means that much to you, Bob, then go ahead and write. And we’ll do the other stuff later.”
BRIDGET
I’m Doing This for You
Thwack! Thwack! Ignoring the tears in her eyes, Bridget brought down the knife again and again.
But the onion was winning this war.
Blinking, she tried to focus on the butter chicken recipe Ajay had written out for her. He’d scribbled notes in the margins, but it was still mostly a foreign language to her. Like what did “dice” mean, exactly? At least when she had cut the chicken breast into one-inch pieces, she’d known exactly how big that was. The pieces of chicken were now marinating in olive oil, lemon juice, and curry pow
der. Ajay roasted and ground his own individual spices, but he’d simplified the recipe for her. She hadn’t even known that curry was a blend of spices.
Concentrating on cooking took Bridget’s mind off wondering where her dad was. He’d promised to be home by the time she got back from school, which never happened. But when she’d unlocked the door an hour ago, the house had been as empty as ever.
He was probably caught at the airport. The day before Thanksgiving was always a zoo. Tomorrow they would go out to eat and then go to the multiplex and watch movie after movie, which had been the tradition ever since her mom died. Her dad would be home for four whole days.
Thanks to his job, Bridget knew there was no single substance called “plastic.” Her cutting board was made from high-density polyethylene plastic (HDPE or number 2) as was the jug in the fridge holding skim milk. The bottles of Diet Coke and salad dressing that sat next to the milk were made from polyethylene terephthalate (PET or number 1), as were the plastic clamshells holding tomatoes on the counter. PET could stand up to acidic foods like pickles, but you could never wash away the smell once it stored food with strong odors.
The containers she’d put the leftovers in after dinner were polypropylene (PP or number 5), which could go from cupboard to fridge to microwave to dishwasher and back to cupboard without breaking, melting, or degrading. And polycarbonate (PC or number 7) was used to make reusable water bottles and baby bottles. At least it had been until people started worrying about one ingredient: bisphenol A (BPA).
Her dad sold low-density polyethylene (LDPE, or number 4). Pliable, it was perfect for squeeze bottles and plastic film that wrapped everything from frozen food to bread to meat.
Unfortunately, the chemicals that made plastic stable and flexible could leach into food. Her dad tried to reassure customers the FDA had strict regulations about how much. But people didn’t always trust the government to look out for their best interests. And many, like Ajay, saw plastic as a not-very-necessary evil.