“It’s all about possibilities,” Gerald said. “Most people can’t see the possibilities in their daily lives. They’re acted upon instead of acting.”

“Sure, yeah,” Mindy said. “People who are acted on, they’re the real villains.” She wasn’t about to argue with the man who had a loaded gun.

“Take this book,” Gerald continued, sweeping a battered Harlequin off the table. “Dime a dozen at any garage sale. Hundreds come out every month. But think about it for a second.”

It was very pink–that’s all Mindy’s fear-addled mind could perceive. The pink of freshly-shed blood sinking into an immaculate white carpet…

“Imagine all the steps that they had to go through to get this terrible thing published. Someone had to write it. Someone had to proofread it. Someone had to sell if. Someone had to bind it. Almost anyone off the street could do the same, and better. But they don’t. ‘Priss McClachty’ is the one with the fat royalty check in her bank account. Why is that?”

“Because she acts,” Mindy whispered. “And isn’t acted upon.” Someone should have been there by now. Did they not get the message? Had her code been too subtle?

“Now you’re on the trolley,” Gerald said. “Let’s see what’s at the end of the track.”

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