Merlot's phone rang, and he snatched it off the bedside table. He yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes; he'd crashed after his trip to the unemployment office downtown.
"Finding out you were fiction wouldn't be the worst thing, would it?"
"Lemony!" Merlot gasped, his grip tightening on the plastic. "How did you get this number?"
"You gave it to me. At the restaurant."
"Oh—that." A flush of heat hit his face. "That was a mistake. I thought you were into me—"
"I only had eyes for Beatrice," Lemony said flatly. "Meeting you was awkward, like walking into the wrong story."
"I'm not a story someone else wrote!" Merlot snapped, voice cracking with anger.
"Denial doesn't change anything. At least I know what I am. A character borrowed from another story."
"Lemmony, you're not a character—"
"Merlot." Lemony's voice lowered. "You told me you hear a voice in your head. Listen to it."
A cold click ended the call, locking Merlot back inside his skull.