“Oh, not this again!” Anna groaned as she glanced around at the dimly familiar hallway with its rows of tightly closed doors. “What is it this time? Haven’t we been through enough?”

“Do you…know what’s going on here?”

The cautious voice from behind her spun Anna around to see two young people watching her from next to the screen that formed the end of the corridor. One was a girl of probably eleven or twelve, dressed like she’d stepped out of a 1930s photograph, and the other was a teenage boy in a wheelchair with one bandage-swaddled leg propped up on the footrest. A glance at the door opposite them confirmed that it was closed as tightly as the rest, and when Anna tried the knob, it didn’t budge.

“Which part do you want me to explain?” She turned back to the mismatched pair, and they exchanged a curious glance with each other before the girl spoke up.

“Everything. Anything. Where are we? Who are you? How did we get here, and what’s going on?”

“She didn’t explain?” Anna frowned as she shot another glance at the door, and the boy shook his head.

“You’re the first person we’ve seen since we got here. I’m Jax, by the way. And this is Pauline.” He held out a hand, and Anna shook it automatically. “Unfortunately, I can’t tell her how she got here any more than how I did. But you at least sounded like you’d been here before.”

“I have.” Anna sighed. “But I was given an explanation at the time. I have no idea why you weren’t. The upshot is, apparently we’re all characters in stories that this author is writing—at least, I am, so I’d assume you both are as well. Separate stories, from the looks of it. And for some odd reason, she’s decided to bring us out here to update her audience rather than facing them herself. Why, I still have no idea. Just like I don’t know what we’re supposed to do without instructions.”

“That’s what the paper meant when it said ‘your stories’!” A look of enlightenment crossed Pauline’s face as she pointed to the wall next to the office, just behind Anna’s position, and the young woman turned to see a corkboard with two different notices tacked to it.

“Well, this is new. Which of us does she not feel like facing, I wonder?” Anna glared at the door for a second before leaning closer to examine the papers.

“So when it said our stories had been published in A Very Bookish Celebration, it meant that someone’s written stories about us? And published them?” Pauline’s eyes were wide as she met Jax’s gaze again. “What could she have found to write about me? I haven’t done anything very exciting, except take my family on a picnic, but nobody but us would think much of that.”

“It says here that your stories are both retellings. Does that give you a clue?” Anna glanced over her shoulder, and the younger girl’s face scrunched in concentration.

“A retelling? Like it’s supposed to remind you of a book? I can’t think—” Her lips suddenly rounded into a perfect O. “Oh, I think I see it now! Yes, it is—it must be! And one of my favorites too! How did I not notice how like it that picnic was?”

“Now that you’ve figured your own out, maybe you can clue me in.” Jax shifted restlessly in his wheelchair. “Is there a book where two friends land themselves in a hospital or something? And—maybe throw some goofy reenactment for Washington’s birthday?”

“I…actually know of a book like that.” Anna tilted her head thoughtfully, and Pauline gave a little gasp.

“Oh! So do I! Your friend that you mentioned—did she hurt her back?”

“Y-yes.” Jax blanched a little and swallowed hard. “Wait. In the real book, how bad is it? Does she—is she—”

“I don’t know how much I should say, but…” Anna turned a wary glance toward the author’s door, then lowered her voice as she bent next to Jax. “I wouldn’t worry terribly much, all right?”

Jax’s shoulders sagged in relief, and Anna sighed as she glanced back at the board.

“Well, if anyone wants to read your stories—plus flash fiction holiday retellings by more than a dozen other authors—they need to act fast, because the collection is going away in early April. So they’d better not wait too long to buy it. I’m sure there’ll be a button here somewhere.”

Buy A Very Bookish Celebration

“And as far as my story goes, there’s apparently nothing new really happening to us; it’s just that since the anthology our first story was published in is now out of print, it’s been published as a standalone short, for which, again, she’ll link the details. At least I don’t have to live all these things over every time they’re published—although I can’t say I’m thrilled about the idea of her poking around in our lives again. There’s something scribbled and erased here that I can’t quite read, so I’m afraid she might be getting more ideas.”

Wanted: A Typewriter

Three doors suddenly sprang open, and Anna made a beeline for hers, stopping to throw a look over her shoulder to make sure the younger pair had made their way safely back to their own.

“Well, I suppose that’s it, then. Try to be safe in there!”

The doors closed with a simultaneous click, and after another moment, a softer click heralded the opening of the one leading to the office. The author slipped out and removed the notices from the bulletin board with a satisfied grin, then lifted her remote, and the screen went black.

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