It was becoming increasingly difficult to pretend he didn't notice how unenthusiastic Darrow was by his presence, but he maintained the same air of friendly cluelessness that he he held onto whenever in stressful meetings with editors and his publisher. It helped him stay confident, and moreover, it stopped him from actively interrogating the the man. He began to flip through his journal, all the while humming a familiar tune. Once he reached a blank page he folded the cover back and left the book open, his gaze jumping back to Darrow.

"You know I write books, of course," he started. There was no "of course" about it, but Darrow didn't seem in the mood to contradict him and it was much easier to keep up with his confidence when he didn't have to ask people if they knew he wrote. "And in this particular one, the protagonist has to make a decision about a problem they have. I have two possibilities for solving the problem, but I can't tell which one would be the best decision." Did Darrow even read? He can't believe he hadn't bothered to ask Zelda that before. Hopefully he could follow. "I thought you, a neutral third party, could help me."

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