He takes his seat at the head table and sips his Private Reserve Cabernet as the waiter sets down his plate. He’d requested the steak for tonight, knowing word wouldn’t get out about breaking his commitment to a vegetarian lifestyle. As the governor makes his introductory remarks, George cuts a square of meat, smudges the sauce delicately over the bite, and pops it into his mouth. It’s tender and flavorful, a meal he knows he’ll remember for some time. He cuts another square and savors this bite, too.

This evening, he thinks as he swipes the third bite through the sauce along his plate, will be one for the history books. And he will be one of the authors.

“But I’m fine,” Tomás repeats. “I’m hurt, but I’m okay.”

Olivia looks up from the four pieces — four pieces! — of this stupid Cuisinart that she can’t put back together to find Hot Teacher grinning at her. He’d taken her ticket at the door and she’d just about passed out when his blazer sleeve pulled up and she spotted the hint of a tattoo beneath it. Combined with the Billy Joel t-shirt casually tucked into his jeans, this man is really doing something for her.

The wind howls through the trees, branches creaking in the night as they tap on the windows like anxious fingers.

You lie awake on the floor, curled tight in your sleeping bag, wondering if anyone else has managed to fall asleep.

The snow has been falling fast, thick, heavy for nearly two hours when the figure bleeds into sight, a spot of ink on the empty page.

“I’m telling you,” Molly continues, “this is fate. Fate, John Baxter. Hot Paramedic has returned to the stage for another compelling performance of ‘Savior with the Dark Curls’ in the nighttime fantasies of Apartment 42.”

The moment is a painting — calm waters, fine sand and rocky outcroppings, untamed shrubs bending to the wind, and a lone boy standing at the edge of the tide.