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Nervous sweat is starting to cover my brow when Milo finally closes the notebook.

“Wow,” he mutters under his breath before meeting my stare. “That was… amazing!”

“Really?” I ask skeptically as he hands my notebook back.

“Really, Max. It was so good. A hitchhiker with a hook for a hand! I’m going to have nightmares for weeks.”

“No, you won’t.” I bite down on a smile, trying to temper the excitement bubbling inside me.

“I’m serious, Max. That was terrifying. But in a good way,” he quickly clarifies. “I might need to keep a light on tonight before I fall asleep.”

“They’re only made-up stories, Milo. You and I both know that real life is way scarier.”

His smile dims slightly, but not enough to take away the happiness swelling inside me at knowing someone other than me enjoyed my words.

“You’re talented, Max. Like, really talented. Is that what you want to do? Be a writer?”

This time, it’s my smile that falters. “Yeah, because Fairhope is world-renowned for churning out writers.”

Unlike me, Milo’s smile broadens. “It may not be known for it now, but one day it will be. I can see it now.” He raises a hand toward the sky as if he could already see my name in neon lights. “Maxine Morgan, international bestselling author.”

“You’re an idiot.” I bite my lip, trying and failing to not get excited at the idea of my stories being read all over the world.

“Come on.” He nudges my shoulder with his. “You gotta admit it has a nice ring to it.”

“I doubt I’ll use my real name,” I add, almost timidly. “I was thinking maybe a pen name. One that I could relate to.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Maybe something spooky but still feels like me. I haven’t thought that far ahead. In fact, I don’t like thinking about it at all. It’s just a childish dream. If I start to believe in it… it’ll only hurt more when it doesn’t come true.”

Milo places his hand on my knee and gives it a squeeze. “But it will come true. I feel it in my bones that you’re going to be a great writer. Even better than… who’s a famous horror author?”

“Huh? Stephen King? Duh.” I laugh.

“No. Bigger than that. I’m talking legendary. I want people to talk about your books fifty years from now. A hundred years! I want your name mentioned in English class like Mary Shelley’s.”

“You’re delusional.”

“No, I’m optimistic.” He winks. “But that’s not why I’m saying this. I have no doubt that you’ll get out of this town and make a real name for yourself. If anyone can do it, it’s you, Max.”

There’s this strange feeling in my chest. It almost feels like hope. Like I actually believe every word that’s falling out of his lips.

I should stop. I really shouldn’t give his words any weight.

So he liked one of my stories. That doesn’t mean anything. There are probably hundreds of people who’d disagree with him and say I write like crap. One person believing in me isn’t going to change that.

“Maybe one day you’ll let me read more,” he says hopefully.

“Maybe,” I reply apprehensively. “Maybe when I finally manage to put everything into a Word document and clean it up a bit, I’ll be okay with people reading it. Not now, when it’s all scattered through these little notebooks.”

“You don’t have a computer?” he asks, concern creeping into his voice.

I glance over my shoulder at my decaying house before looking back at him. “Does it look like I can afford a computer?” Even my phone is a hand-me-down from my late mother. Or, as Dad once called it, my inheritance.

Milo is still staring at me when a shrill voice cuts through the moment.

“Milo! Dinner’s ready!” We hear Peyton shout from his porch.