Free We Are Here by Michael Marshall Page A

friend of a friend of mine. But it’s totally true and …’ and so on. It’s a way of making a story seem real without taking responsibility for it.”
    “Gotcha,” Talia said. “Though, like I said, this actually happened to George, or so he says.”
    “But I don’t know George,” David said, “so … he’s a friend of a friend, to me.”
    Talia worked this through in her head, and smiled—a dazzler that took off thirty years. “I see what you done there, smart boy. Guess that’s why you get paid the big bucks.”
    David spread his hands in mock self-appreciation. “When genius strikes.”
    “Uh-huh. So why don’t you take those smarts and go home and do some actual work?”
    David laughed. “Good advice, as always.”
    “Right. It’s on account of me being so fucking wise. Now push off. It’s easier for me to steal cake if there’s only Dylan around.”
    Just before he opened the door, David turned back. “Talia,” he said. He hesitated. “Your novel?”
    “You want to help me set fire to it? I got matches.”
    “It’s not like I know much, but if you wanted me to take a look … I’d be glad to. For what it’s worth.”
    Talia blinked. Never mind losing thirty years; suddenly she looked about fifteen. “Oh, David, that would be so cool. I’ll e-mail it to you tonight, soon as I get home. I know there’s a lot of work to do on it, but … It would mean a lot to me, really.”
    “Can’t guarantee how quickly I can get back to you, is the only thing.”
    “Oh, I understand, totally. And I won’t bug you about it. I promise. David, that’s so kind. Thank you.”
    He nodded, feeling shy. “What are friends for?”
    He walked home knowing he was going to regret the gesture but telling himself you had to pay it forward or sideways or whatever the hell it was. He owed Talia for picking up his mood, not least because the old chestnut of the phantom hitchhiker was working at him, becoming an itch in the hard-to-define area in the back of his brain from which the ideas came (when and if they did).
    He went straight up to the bedroom that had been designated his study. As he settled at his desk, the phone rang. He grabbed the handset while reaching for the keyboard. Once something started working at him he had to start typing it right now , or it would fly away.
    “Yes?”
    Nobody said anything. “Miller house,” David said irritably. There was silence; then he heard a noise down the line. It was quiet, as if coming from a long way away. “Can you hear me?”
    Silence, then a distant, muttered sound that might have been words, but was impossible to make out. There was something about the tone that did not sound friendly.
    David put the phone down. If it was important they’d call back or try his cell, and either way he didn’t care.
    He started typing, slowly at first, and then faster, and the next few hours disappeared to wherever they go when the page opens up like a six-lane highway, for once.

Chapter 10
    I have never been good at walking away from things. This is not a boast, a declaration that I’m the kind of guy who will by God get things done and rah-rah for me in particular and testosterone in general. Quite the opposite. There have been times when I’ve manifestly failed to do the right thing, when I’ve hidden from problems and let my life degrade and rust. I suspect the truth is when I do try to leave a situation I’ll run, not walk—but in a circle. I believe I’m escaping from the problem but spin around it instead, maintaining orbit until a gravitational change plunges me back into the center. This is what happened after the death of my son. There was a period in the wilderness of alcohol and then a spell of affectless calm working at a restaurant in Oregon. But after that came a return to a small town in Washington State, where it turned out I had unfinished business. People died during the resolution of this business. I might have thought I was walking away from