Page 4

“Thank you,” I say, rising and seizing pages from each of their hands. “Perfect. Thanks. So sorry. Bless you, Marta. Thanks.”

I’m a hoarding dragon, smuggling paper as fast as I can, grabbing pages in all directions and, whenever someone bends to pick one up, breaking stride to grab it from their hands.

I scan the perimeter.

Half the pages secure and protected.

Thirty seconds go by.

More than half.

Another twenty seconds.

Eighty percent.

At this point I volley every new sheet to Lyla, who crams them into her giant leather tote. It kills me to see the pages wedged inside her bag, but I don’t have time. It’ll be a bear sorting them later, but I have to keep my priorities in line.

I spot five pages out in the wild and lunge for them.

The light at the end of the tunnel is starting to shine through. My rib cage is starting to loosen.

Three pages.

Two.

One.

I throw the last sheet at Lyla.

None. All of the manuscript safely crammed into Lyla’s bag. Done.

I sit back on my heels at last, kneeling on the carpet, exhaling for the first time in what feels like years.

I did it. I came close—too close—to the biggest mistake of my professional career, but I escaped. There’s a temptation to let out a hysterical giggle of relief.

Only . . .

Vaguely I note the silence around the room, like a little tap on the shoulder saying, “Hey, now that you’ve gotten that fixed up, you may want to have a look around.”

So I do. I look up. And catch everyone’s stares. Recall the little mishap over my skirt. Feel the general need to pretend the last sixty seconds didn’t just happen.

“Thanks, everyone.” I press both palms on the carpet, my fingers going deep into the plush, and start to push myself up.

Creepy Rem’s (Pennington Scribe, four years) eyes are glued to my skirt, and I frown and tug it down another inch.

“Sav!” Lyla hisses.

She points over my shoulder. Her eyes are wide, blue, and unnervingly crystalized on a single point in the distance. I jerk my head around and follow the direction of her finger.

Ten feet over, a single sheet of paper lies in the center of the aisle—and a dozen eyes rest on it like vultures about to dive.

I scramble to my feet.

“Excuse me,” I say, touching shoulders as I rush past bodies. My legs feel like soft macaroni with each step. The row is packed. People are everywhere. People and laptop bags and purses and stray books and—

Finally, I hop over the last travel mug, untangle myself from a final computer bag trying to latch onto my heels, and emerge into the aisle.

At last, I’m free.