I have a confession to make. I haven’t written a thing in twenty years. All these Shards are being written by a dwarf who lives out in the garage in a barrel. Each morning before sunrise I go out there with a flashlight and a gnarly hand reaches up out of the barrel and shakes a fistful of loose pages at me. I click off the light and take the pages in the dark.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“De nada,” says the dwarf, but I don’t think he’s Mexican.