Merlot slid the pages across the oak table, their papers curled from nervous handling. The library was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of pages and the distant hum of fluorescent lights. Dust motes floated in the sunbeams slanting through the tall windows, casting a golden haze over the rows of bookshelves.
Alan adjusted his glasses and leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. He read slowly, lips pursed, eyes scanning each line with the intensity of someone searching for something beneath the surface.
Merlot watched him, fingers tapping anxiously against the table. His nails were bitten down, ink smudged across his knuckles. He shifted in his seat, the tension in his shoulders.
Alan finally set the pages down and looked up. "James' assassination— "James' assassination—it reminds me of that president who got grazed in the ear on stage. Waved to the crowd like it was nothing, then called it the 'most heroic ear wound in history.'"
Merlot's eyes flickered with recognition. "Yeah. That spark lit this story."
Alan raised an eyebrow, half amused, half wary. "I doubt he'd love knowing his near-death moment fueled your novel. This is the guy who called half the country losers on live TV."
Merlot smirked, a dry laugh escaping. "Oh, come on. This is the guy who could fill a library with his insults. Shockingly, I'm not on the shelves."
Alan chuckled, shaking his head. "He hasn't the slightest idea who you are, Merlot. How could he write about you?"
Merlot's smile faded. He looked down at the table, tracing the grain with his fingertip. "I cling to the hope that he sees me, even as doubt gnaws at that hope."
The thought gave him a prickling behind the eyes, as if someone were listening in, leaning too close to the microphone.
Alan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Who's Dan in your story?"
Merlot looked up, eyes distant. "A regular guy. Like me."
Alan tilted his head. "What inspired you to write about him?"
Merlot hesitated, then spoke softly. "Being drafted to fight in Vietnam was the inspiration. I wanted to create a fictional world—one with two warring countries, Intermarium and Ossory—to explore what it felt like to be forced into a war I didn't choose."
He remembered the letter arriving. The way his hands shook opening it. The disbelief—like the words had been meant for someone else. He'd spent years on this novel, but still felt like a fraud. Like an imposter in his own story.
Alan's expression darkened with empathy. "But why not conscientious objection? A lot of guys did that—like that rock band manager from New York, the one who used to brag about dodging the draft."
"I didn't even know that was an option," Merlot said. "And I didn't want to risk prison for draft evasion."
Alan frowned. "Why didn't you go to Canada? I thought your family was from there."
Merlot shook his head. "My mother was a foster kid, bounced between homes. No one was waiting for me."
Alan leaned back, his voice softer now. "That's rough. Have you ever visited since?"
"No." Merlot gathered his papers, movements stiff, like he carried more than just a manuscript. "After Vietnam, I lost any urge to leave the U.S."
He stood, the chair scraping against the floor. His movements were stiff, like he was carrying more than just his manuscript. "I've got to see Dr. Graydon. He's got student papers I need to mark."
Alan nodded, watching him go. "Take care, Merlot."
As Merlot stepped into the hallway, the silence pressed in. The voice returned, unwelcome and familiar—like bad company slipping through a crack in the door.
Merlot, are you using my pen name and claiming it's yours?
His jaw clenched. "I'm not a wannabe author," Merlot thought, a cold defiance rising in him. I'm the guy with the parasite in his head. And you're the one who keeps giving me writer's block."
He walked faster, footsteps echoing down the corridor like quotation marks snapping shut on a story he'd never finish.