Waking in the hospital, Brian didn't remember much. On the table near his bed, he found a contract with his name written twice at the bottom.

“A friend dropped you off and then had to go.”

“Paul saved my life,” Brian said.

“What happened before that?” the nurse asked.

Brian closed his eyes tight and thought…

They trashed his story in Fiction class. They hated his writing but thought his character had “potential,” whatever that meant. Brian headed to the campus coffee shop.

Dragging his backpack while balancing a maple donut on the lid of his coffee, Brian smirked at the full booths along the wall and took a small table in the center of things. He sat and watched people arrive.

He nibbled at his inner cheek and thought of taking out Whitney's story for the next class. He'd read it, find the weakness, and unravel it. “Better revenge might be to not read her story at all,” he said, biting the donut and wishing it were chocolate.

“Can I join you?”

Brian saw the hand on the head of the chair across from him. He followed the arm up to a familiar face that puffed with good living. “Sure man.”

“Thanks. Gonna get a coffee.” He motioned to the line over his shoulder. “Need anything?”

“No thanks.” Brian tapped his cup.

The guy joined the line that stretched from the counter to the door, leaving his backpack on the empty chair.

“I could leave when he gets back,” Brian thought.

Quicker than he'd hoped, his guest returned. “How did workshop go?”

“Huh?”

“I'm Paul.”

Brian smiled with one side of his mouth.

“Dude, I'm in your Fiction class.”

“I'm sorry, man. My head's still spinning from the thrashing I took today.”

“I missed class,” Paul said. “I did read the story though. Yours?”

Brian deflated into his chair. “Yeah.”

Paul shoved his bag to the floor and sat. “What's the matter?”

“They hated it.”

“Hated it?”

Brian nodded. How many times can you say it out loud?

Paul sipped his coffee and grimaced. He pulled a sugar packet from his pocket and stirred it into the cup, licking the wooden stir stick as he finished. “No story's perfect. I mean you can get all the grammar right now and then, but I mean perfect. Like capital ‘P' perfect—where everyone likes it.”

“What about that thing about the funeral by James Joyce?”

Paul laughed.

“Seriously, I mean, that's always described as one of the best short stories in the English language.”

“But you don't even remember the title.” Paul laughed again. He looked both ways and added, “I hate that fucking story.”

Brian smiled.

“I mean, stream of consciousness—great. He's a real artist and all cause that's so hard to write—and impossible to read. Who needs it?”

“That's just what I thought while Dr. Peterson was going on and on about Joyce.” Brian stretched his back.

“Most students think it, but to seem smart and get that English degree, you will love Joyce.” Paul jabbed a finger towards Brian. “Got it?”

Brian laughed.

Paul let some silence bury the Joyce talk. “I liked some stuff about your story.”

“Look man. I just had an hour of this…”

“I got nothing bad to say,” Paul said, rolling the empty sugar packet into a tight cylinder, “I'll tell you the good stuff.”

Brian wanted out. Checking the room, there was no one he knew who could join them for a subject change. Had he already said that he didn't have another class today?

“It might do you some good to hear what I liked. Plus…I got a proposition for you.”

Proposition? “Look…I'm flattered really. But I'm just not…” Brian circled his hand in the air, trying to shovel the right words into his mouth. “… into guys.”

“Not into…” Paul laughed himself breathless. He slapped the table. “You'll go far in life with that kind of confidence, but no…That's not what this is about. It's about Dana.”

“My Dana?” Brian straightened in his seat.

“The one in your story, yeah.”

“What about her?”

“In a word, she's perfect. I think I love her.”

“Wow. Thanks,” Brian said, “I tried to make her real. It's a challenge, I think, to make a believable woman.”

“Oh she goes way beyond that. I don't know that you know what you've done here. I mean the way she sees things and thinks…like when she's looking at the men in the police line up and wishes she could convict them all. And the shower after the attack. She was so hurt. I wanted to…save her.”

“Thanks! You should have been in class.”

Paul brought his index finger and thumb to his chin as if in thought. “Dana is special. She could do a lot. Have you written more about her?”

“Once I tell a story, that character is usually done. How about you?”

“If you got the right character, sequels work. Nick Adams, Hercule Poirot?”

Brian nodded.

“And I think Dana is that strong. She'd need a last name, of course.”

“Rubens.” Brian wondered how carefully Paul read the story.

“That's Pee Wee Herman's last name. She needs a better one.”

People near them gathered their things and left, telling Brian that it must be getting close to the hour. Classes would start soon. Paul didn't seem to notice. “Rubens is her last name,” Brian said.

“Well, maybe it can be her maiden name. Or maybe…maybe it could be the name of her mom's new husband. But it can't be hers. She's too good for it.”

“I'm pretty sure about this.”

“Don't you see that whenever you say something like that, you limit yourself? Why cut off any possibility? This is fiction we're writing. Within reason, the possibilities are endless. Right?”

“I guess,” Brian said.

Paul leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms to the side. Halfway through a yawn he said, “Ah…That's how I see it anyway. The name of a serial protagonist has to be bold yet believable. You can easily go over the top. I mean, Indiana Jones is way over the top, but that's what they were going for.” Paul shook his head. “See, Dana Rubens…it's nearly right, but it's missing part the punch that would immortalize her.”

“Isn't the story more important than the character's name?”

“Every word in the story is important. Even the names.” Paul checked his watch but stayed seated, killing the spark of hope Brian had for solitude.

“I don't know. I don't ever remember characters' last names.”

“Oh yeah? What's Holden's last name?”

“Caulfield.”

“See what I mean?” Paul pointed his finger quick at Brian like a hand gun firing.

“I guess you have a point. Do you really think that Dana has Holden Caulfied potential?”

“Every bit and more. She's single, strong…confident—you get the feeling she could do anything.”

Brian basked in the glow and pictured a book signing at Barnes and Noble. His face tired from smiling; his hand shaking with the Sharpie in it.

“But Rubens…Gotta fix that.”

Brian left his imaginary Nobel Prize speech and came back to the amateur writer's coffee house table.

“Hey, man, you up for a beer?” Paul motioned toward the door with his head.

“Still kind of early, don't you think?”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

“I don't live too far. We could hit my place. Have a beer or two. Talk about writing. I could show you some of my stuff,” Paul said.

The idea was too bohemian to refuse.

Paul lived in a duplex a block from campus near Blimpie's Sandwich shop. “I like it over here. Far from the Greeks.” Fraternity row was on the other side of the campus. “Can't trust them.”

Brian thought of the Trojan Horse but didn't bring it up as Paul worked the lock and opened the door. “Place is kind of a mess right now.”

A computer lined with fast food cups sat on a desk next to a TV that sat on a milk crate.

“Have a seat, and I'll grab the beer.” Paul motioned to a rust-colored futon with white stuffing popping from one corner.

Brian sat, leaning his backpack against the futon's base.

Paul resurfaced with two beers. “Miller all right?”

“Sure.”

“Good, cause that's all I got.” Paul took the other side of the futon.

“So what do you got? One bedroom?”

“Yeah. It's just me.”

Brian sipped his beer. It tasted bitter, but morning beer does. “To writing,” Paul said, and they clinked bottle necks and drank.

“So about Dana,” Paul said with his beer in his lap, “I want her.”

“What do you mean?”

“I told you; she's perfect, and I want her in my life. I'm trying not to get crude here.” Paul laughed, upending his beer.

“She's that real to you? Thanks, man.” The buzz came over Brian faster than it should have, but he hadn't eaten except the donut.

“There's only one problem.”

“She doesn't really exist?” Brian laughed.

“Okay two problems then.”

Brian looked to the corner of the room and noticed how shiny everything was. The neck of his bottle stretched the length of the room when he moved his head.

“The other problem,” Paul's voice traveled down a long tunnel and back to the duplex, “is that Dana's too good for you.”

Brian stared at Paul, trying to differentiate between the light and his face.

“I don't know how, but a great character came out of your weak writing. I would say it's one of the most undeniable paradoxes of our time…a literary rose in a field of shit clichés.”

“Shit clichés.”

“See how easy it is for you to say that?” Paul's laughter thundered. “I'd treat Dana right. Are you listening to me? I want her legal. Hey! Don't you pass out.” Paul slapped Brian's rubber cheek. “I misjudged how much to slip you.”

The room stretched like pictures on a dying TV screen. Brian's head fell back. Something pried his eyes open.

“You see this?”

Brian shook his head. Bright lights…

Paul shook him. “Don't you die on me, bastard. This powder in this bag will counteract the stuff I gave you. All you gotta do is sign Dana to me, of course this paper doesn't name me, and we'll be good to go. I got the contract all ready. Stay with me. So sign! Brian?” Paul slapped his face again.

Nothing.

“Good enough.” Paul forced a pen into Brian's jellied hand and shaped his name on the contract. “Once more and we're set.” A second signature was made.

Paul pinned one of the contracts to Brian's shirt and zipped his jacket over it. With one of Brian's arms draped across his shoulders, Paul got him to a car. “Too much to drink,” he said to a neighbor.

Paul chanted for the whole ride to the hospital. “I'm Paul. I saved your life. I'm Paul. I saved your life.”