Merlot wondered whether The Sangria War would leave readers bitter that he'd never tied up the loose threads—Kacy still homeless, Intermarium collapsing under Lolita's rule, Cascadia rotting beneath Osa's crown. Or had they already spat out the Sangria after the first chapter, sick of the sweetness that hid the sting? Lolita was anything but sweet after ordering planes to poison Cascadia's crops. Merlot wondered if readers would regret putting the book down—or regret picking it up?
Death is certain, Fame is not.
Merlot shook his head. "I don't need you doubting me."
His day had been perfect. Alan had called—promoted, quitting his second job, coming over to read Merlot's work. Then the voice returned.
Don't you think the story needs a dramatic opening? Bleeding in the jungle. Right lung shot. Boot camp was supposed to prepare you. You were never ready.
"Go to hell! I'm not some figment of your imagination!" Merlot clenched his fists.
Go to hell? While I was driving down that highway, I was thinking of you — and maybe where I need to drag you down to.
"Imaginary people don't get behind the wheel," Merlot snapped.
Really, that's your comeback? Don't forget who's in charge—and who can unplug your ventilator while your right lung bleeds out.
Merlot swallowed hard. He'd survived dodging the bullet—hadn't he? Now he sat on a couch in his apartment, not in a hospital bed with his mother weeping beside him, the jungle and its blood merely ghosts in his mind.