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he’d taken from bad guys, after beating the shit out of them, of course. He had shown his Fade books to people who had seen this guy. They said yeah, it was him. He totally existed.
    Jesus, what had she done? It gave her a wobble in her stomach. She was the one who had created Fade and put him into Jamal’s mind, so Jamal’s problem was partly of her own making. And it made her heart hurt, how intense Jamal’s need for escape must be. It wasn’t right. Reality should not have to be so bleak that the kid had to escape from it at all costs. But it felt hypocritical to scold him about it. After all, escape into fiction was one of her coping mechanisms, too. And it was a better one than most. Better than drugs, for sure.
    It scared her, though, when Jamal’s fantasies strayed into the realm of actual delusion. Jamal’s mom was too busy with her clients and her own drug addiction to be bothered with the problem, so Edie wondered uneasily if she herself should track down Jamal’s social worker, or school psychologist. Someone ought to know. But who?
    She spotted her father coming through the doors. The host pointed Charles Parrish her way. She popped up, waving. Smiling.
    Her father jerked his chin, waving her down. His disapproving smile said, sit, Edith. Try not to make a spectacle of yourself.
    She sank back down, trying to be decorous. Ever since she learned to talk, she’d been trying. Though come to think of it, when she’d learned to talk was more or less when the trouble began.
    She shook away that unworthy thought as he walked toward her. Her cheeks ached with tension. They were both making an effort, and that was positive, right? Being defeatist or sulky would not help her get to see Ronnie. She was going to keep it together. Oh, so good, oh, so mellow, oh, so very normal and natural. No need for meds.
    She got up when he reached the table, and they did the stiff, awkward kiss and half-body embrace. Always timing it wrong, jostling the eyeglasses, bumping chins, going for the wrong cheek and hitting a jawbone, or kissing an ear. Nervous, muttered apologies.
    Finally, they were safely seated on opposite sides of the table. Searching for an entry point in the seamless marble wall between them.
    Charles Parrish’s eyes fell on the pile of sketchbooks on the table, the pens scattered on the smudged tablecloth. Her blackened fingertips. She suppressed an urge to gather them up, mumbling apologies. She stopped herself. She was twenty-nine, a woman, a successful, well-known professional artist. Not a naughty child caught misbehaving.
    The waiter arriving to bring water and take their order was a welcome distraction for a couple of minutes, but soon they were left alone, staring at each other. At a loss.
    Her father made an unfriendly gesture with his hand toward the sketchbooks. “Hard at work?”
    â€œAs always. It’s going well.” She waited for him to ask for more details. In vain.
    â€œIs it?” he murmured vaguely. “Is that so.”
    The dismissal in his voice killed the urge to pull out the sheaf of reviews she’d printed up for him, for her latest graphic novel. They said things like “ground breaking,” “genre defining.” They referred to her, awkward, shy Edie Parrish, as “one of the freshest new voices of a disillusioned but stubbornly hopeful generation.” They used phrases like “immensely powerful,” and “full of pathos and palpable yearning.”
    But Charles Parrish didn’t want to hear about it. His oldest daughter’s pathos and palpable yearning had been an embarrassment to him her entire life. Edie crumpled the printouts in the pocket of her long sweater, and scrambled for something else to say. “I, um, have a book signing this Saturday,” she offered. “At Powell’s. At seven p.m.”
    â€œOh. That’s nice,” he said, his voice distant.
    â€œIt’s for