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slides it over her shoulder.
    “Want some company?” I ask hopefully. Last thing I need is quality time with Nate.
    “I’m good,” she says with a half smile. “Plus I could use a little break from the whole competing-over-the-girl caveman vibe.”
    Damn. Damn. Damn. She’s onto us.
    Of course, as soon as she’s out of the room, Nate snaps open a beer. He is suddenly dry-eyed.
    “She totally digs me. Don’t worry, Shakespeare, I’ll be gentle with her.” He pops a chip into his mouth, crunching loudly. “You know, I bet she’s got great tits somewhere under that jacket.”
    I wince. But to be honest, I’m thinking the same thing myself—I’m a guy; our brains go there. Plus, I haven’t been with anyone recently. For one thing, the dating pool in New Goshen is dismally limited, unless I want to consider a retiree as a prospective love interest. And I’ve told myself that a relationship would distract me from finishing the Great American Novel I started in college, which is now nearing the one-thousand-page mark, with no end in sight.
    It began simply enough—write your thesis on a historical person of interest. I chose Grigori Rasputin, partly because I’d recently watched a magician hypnotize a frat brother into squawking like a chicken (an obviously useful skill), and partly because I thought that it would finally give my father and me something to talk about—them both being from Russia and all. After buying a few thick, dusty books from eBay on Rasputin, I quickly discovered that actual research is mind-numbingly dull, so I opted to make my book fictional, which allowed me to incorporate unsubstantiated rumors from the blogosphere. Much easier. Maybe the opening chapter with Rasputin’s resurrection while his corpse was burning, having just been poisoned, stabbed, beaten, and drowned, was a bit much, but after the syphilitic prostitute disemboweled him, I began to think I was on my way to making my first million (gore never having hurt Stephen King’s career). Then I thought—what the hell?—let’s make him a zombie (a vampire would be so… cliché), which would logically explain hispale skin, creepy stare, and inability to be properly killed. “Rasputin: Secret Tsar of Immortal Zombies”. Shit, this could be a franchise . My professor quickly dismissed the book as trash, which only added to the appeal, but now at page 985 I realize that it’s become what we in literary circles call a hot mess. Every night I spend two or three hours feverishly typing, hoping that some Kafkaesque logic will eventually manifest. All I need is another ten pages. Or maybe another ten. I’m like the guy who has lost his life savings at the roulette wheel and is going to the pawn shop to unload his wedding ring—one more roll will make it right.
    I look over, and Maddy pauses her chant long enough to take a drag on her cigarette. If she were really psychic, she’d quit smoking, because even I can figure out what her obituary headline will be: PSYCHIC HAIRDRESSER DIES OF LUNG CANCER .
    Nate shoves another handful of chips in his already-full mouth. “You getting this all down, Shakespeare?”
    “Getting what down? Nothing’s happening.” A cockroach scuttles along the baseboard, as if it’s waiting for us to be distracted long enough so it can make a run for the potato chip crumbs—thrilling stuff. I hear creaking footsteps overhead, which for a few tantalizing seconds gives me hope that there might actually be a ghost and, more importantly, a story to write about, until I realize it’s probably just Lisa on her quest for bathroom tissue. I hope she’s up to date on the rotting floorboards situation. Given the piles of termite dust in the corners, I’m surprised the place hasn’t collapsed entirely.
    “Night’s still early,” says Nate. He opens his pack and pulls out a high-end video camera. “It’s got night vision, so I can catch all the action. Figured I’d need to make sure you get the story