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persuasion.
    Tom dropped to his knees and threw open the lid of an old chest. He twisted around, saw that the door was indeed firmly locked, and began rummaging through the musty wood box.
    He grabbed handfuls of papers and dumped them on the floor. The receipt was yellow; he was sure of that. He’d buried it here four years ago when he’d first come to Denver to live with his sister.
    A thick ream of paper came out in his hands. He grunted at the manuscript, struck by its weight. Heavy. Like a stone. Dead on arrival. This wasn’t the receipt, but it arrested his attention anyway. His latest failed endeavor. An important novel entitled To Kill with Reason . Actually it was his second novel. He reached into the box and pulled out the first. Superheroes in Super Fog. The title was admittedly confusing, but that was no reason for the self-appointed literary wizards scouring the earth for the next Stephen King to turn it down. Both novels were either brilliant or complete trash, and he wasn’t yet sure which. Kara had liked them both.
    Kara was a god.
    Now he had two novels in his hands. Enough dead weight to pull him to the bottom of any lake. He stared at the top title, Superheroes in Super Fog, and considered the matter yet again. He’d given three years of his life to these stacks of paper before entombing them in this grave with a thousand rejection slips to keep them company.
    The whole business made his stomach crawl. As it turned out, dishing out coffees at Java Hut actually paid more than writing brilliant novels. Or, for that matter, importing exotic carvings from Southeast Asia.
    He dropped the manuscripts with a loud thump and shuffled through the chest. Yellow. He was looking for a yellow slip of paper, a carbon-copy sales receipt. The kind written by hand, not tape from a machine. The receipt had a contact name on it. He couldn’t even remember who had loaned him the money. Some loan shark. Without that receipt, Tom didn’t even know where to start.
    Suddenly it was there, in his hand.
    Tom stared at the slip of paper. Real, definitely real. The amount, the name, the date. Like a death sentence. His head swam. Very, very, very real. Of course, he already knew it was real, but now, with this tangible evidence in his hand, it all felt doubly real.
    He lowered his hand and swallowed. At the bottom of the chest lay an old blackened machete he’d bought in one of Manila’s back alleys. He impulsively grabbed it, jumped to his feet, and ran for the light switch by the door. The place was lit up like a bonfire. It was these kinds of stupid mistakes that got people killed. So says the aspiring fiction writer.
    He slapped off the lights, pulled back the curtains, and peered out. Clear. He released the drape and turned around. Faces peered at him. Kara’s masquerade masks, laughing and frowning.
    His knees felt weak. From loss of blood, from the trauma of a bullet to the head, from a growing certainty that this fiasco was only just beginning and it would take more than a whole lot of luck and a few karate kicks to keep it from ending badly.
    Tom hurried to the kitchen, set the machete on the counter, and called his mother in New York. She answered on the tenth ring.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œMom?”
    â€œTommy.”
    He released a silent breath of relief. “It’s Tommy.
Um . . . you’re okay, huh?”
    â€œWhat time is it? It’s after one in the morning.”
    â€œSorry. Okay, I just wanted to check on you.”
    His mother was silent.
    â€œYou sure you’re okay?”
    â€œYes, Tommy. I’m fine.” Pause. “Thanks for checking though.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œYou kids doing okay?”
    â€œYes. Sure, of course.”
    â€œI talked to Kara on Saturday. She seems to be doing well.”
    â€œYeah. You sound good.” He could always tell when she was struggling. Depression was difficult to hide. Her last serious bout had