XIXThere was a knock on the adjoining door. Then again, he didn’t expect different. It was getting late. Hal barely looked up from the notebook, “come,” he impersonated her favorite starship captain.
Justine found him in black sweats and old Rose Thorns t shirt, writing away. She wore her same clothes. She was barefoot. The writer was engrossed. The words were almost there almost. “So I guess you’ve been writing.”
“Deal’s a deal,” he didn’t look up. “Here,” he slid one notebook across the table and kept writing away.
“What do we have here?” The politician asked. “Bottom of the fourth? Divorce?”
“Plays don’t get written in order,” no story does.
Duchane read and Urban kept writing. “You’ve been doing your job and well.” She crinkled her nose. “He’s a bit bitter. You know pain.”
The wr
