“Part two?!” exclaimed Trent. “What happened to part one?”

Martin shrugged. “I don’t know. I wasn’t asked.”

Trent was less than happy. “Everyone knows you can’t start with part two. It makes no sense! So now, when I tell you who’s really behind all of it, it’s not a great secret anymore, is it! Nobody will even know what I’m talking about.”

Martin shrugged again. “Well, maybe they’ll go back and do part one later.”

“They’d better,” grumbled Trent. “The readers will be completely lost. And I’ve been waiting forever to give it away, and when I finally do no one will be able to appreciate it!”

Martin checked his watch. “We’d better get started.”

“Okay.” Trent still looked annoyed.

Martin left and the lights went out.

Trent stood in the small storage room, nervous, pacing. The only light leaked from under the door, but it was enough to see dimly. He flipped his longish hair, bright blue eyes darting.

Suddenly, a shadow appeared outside the door. He held his breath. The knob turned…but it was only Martin. Tall, quiet, strong Martin. He stepped inside and closed the door. It was dark again. There was a brief silence.

“Well, Trent, what is it?” Martin asked finally. “We’d better hurry, I’ll be in deep trouble if I’m late.”

“I know who it is,” hissed Trent. “I know who’s behind the Thackery plot.”

Martin stilled, scrutinizing Trent carefully through the gloom. Could he be trusted?

“You’re sure?”

Trent nodded eagerly. “Of course I am.”

Martin didn’t move. “Who?” he asked finally.

Trent took a breath, excited. “It’s…”

But suddenly there were footsteps outside the door, and both of them froze. This wasn’t supposed…

The door swung open and there stood Chelsea- long black hair perfect as usual. “Hi, guys,” she said conversationally. They stood, confused. This wasn’t in the scene!

“There’s been a slight mistake,” she continued. “The writer started before the scene did. Turns out your conversation about the whole ‘part two’ thing is now part of the story.”

Trent’s jaw dropped indignantly. “What?!”

Martin sighed. “Are we going to do it over?”

Chelsea shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“We’d better,” grumbled Trent. “First we start in the middle of the story, then the writer begins writing too early. What next? I think we need a new author. This one doesn’t have a clue. Idiot.”

And just because of that very rude comment (combined with a finite amount of patience), the story ended before Trent could reveal who the mastermind was (which he had been so excited to do).

Take that.