Page 95

“Technically, you don’t have to redo the entire reader report.”

I glance up from my computer.

Steve Owens stands beside my desk, holding the pages I gave him twenty minutes ago.

Fourteen separate sections are circled in red. I counted. Twice.

“You circled half of it.”

Steve pushes his dark-framed glasses higher on his nose. “Those are suggestions.”

“There are fourteen.”

He looks down and actually counts them. “Yes, there are fourteen of them.”

I stare at him.

“You’re very comforting.”

“I’ve been told the opposite.” The completely serious way he says it makes me laugh.

Steve looks mildly confused about why. I’m beginning to realize that’s just Steve.

My first impression of him landed somewhere between him being intimidating and vaguely condescending, but after more than a week at Wilder House, I’m starting to think he’s mostly just awkward. Painfully, professionally awkward.

He taps one of the circles. “This one matters.”

I turn my attention back to the report.

“You said the heroine’s decision in chapter twelve feels unearned, but you never identify why.”

“I thought her motivation wasn’t developed enough.”

Steve hands the papers back to me. “Then say that.” He tapes the pages I’m now holding. “Specificity is useful. ‘It doesn’t work’ isn’t.”

I read my original note again. Annoyingly, he’s right.

“So basically, if I’m going to tell an author their story is broken, I should know why.”

“Technically, I wouldn’t use the word broken.”

I look up.

Steve pauses. “Unless it technically is.”

My mouth twitches. “Thanks, Steve.”

He nods once and walks away.

No, you’re welcome.

No, good job.

Just a nod.

I turn back to the report.

The office smells faintly of coffee and paper, and somewhere behind me, Angela argues with the printer like it has personally betrayed her. Late-afternoon sunlight spills through the tall windows, catching dust in the air and turning the exposed brick almost gold.