Just Remember to Breathe Read Free Page A

too.”
    His eyes widened. “You’re going to be working for Forrester?”
    “Is he the so-called author in residence? ”
    He nodded.
    “Oh, God,” I said. “I’m going to be sick.”
    “Thanks. It’s great to see you too, Alex.”
    I almost shouted at him, but a jovial voice down the hall called to us. “Hello! You two must be my new research assistants!”
    A ridiculous looking man, trying way too hard to look like an author with a capital A, walked toward us. He wore a tweed jacket, with leather patches on the elbows, and corduroy pants. He couldn’t have been much older than thirty-five, but he wore reading glasses perched halfway up his nose.  
    “Well, hello,” he said. “I’m Max Forrester.”
    “Alex Thompson,” I said. I glanced at Dylan. He was glaring at me.
    “Dylan Paris,” he said.
    “Come in, Alex and Dylan. My apologies for being late. Sometimes I get lost in the throes of creation and forget the time.”
    Forrester’s back was already to me as he unlocked his door. I rolled my eyes. Lost in the throes of creation, indeed. You could smell the whiskey on his breath from fifteen feet away. Smelled like he’d gotten lost in the nearest watering hole.
    Dylan waved me ahead of him. He was leaning heavily on the cane. What happened to him? I walked in behind Forrester, and Dylan followed me, limping.
    “Sit down, you two, sit down. Can I get you some tea? Water? Or something with a little more, um… life?”
    “No thanks,” Dylan said, grimacing as he eased himself into his seat. Once seated, he leaned his cane against the wall. His expression was unreadable.
    “I’ll take some water,” I said, just to contradict him.
    Forrester filled up a small glass with water at a tiny sink in the back of the office and brought it to me. My eyes narrowed a little when I got a look at the glass. It was filthy. Eww. And there was something oily floating on top of the water.  
    I pretended to take a sip, then set it on the edge of the desk.
    “Well, let’s get down to business,” Forrester said. “Do you two know each other?”
    “No,” I said, forcefully, just as Dylan said, “Yes.”
    Forrester liked that. A smile lit up on his face, then he said, “I bet there’s a story there.”
    “You’d be wrong,” I replied. I glanced at Dylan, and said, “Nothing significant at all.”
    Dylan blinked, and he darted his eyes away from me.
    Good. Part of me wanted to hurt him just as badly as he had hurt me.
    Unfortunately, Forrester picked up on it. He said, very slowly, “I trust there won’t be a problem.”
    “No, no problem,” I said.
    “No, sir,” Dylan responded, his voice cool.
    “Well then,” Forrester said. “That’s good. So, let me tell you what you’ll be doing. I’m here for a year, and I’m working on a novel. Historical fiction, centered around the draft riots here in New York during the Civil War. Are you familiar with them?”
    I shook my head, but Dylan said, “Yes. Sad story… some of it turned to lynch mobs.”
    Forrester nodded, enthusiastically. “That’s right. Miss Thompson… the story is this. In July 1863, there was a series of riots here in the city. Mostly poor and working-class Irish, protesting because the rich could buy exemption from the draft. The protests turned ugly, then violent. A lot of people were killed.”
    “They burned down the orphanage,” Dylan said. What a brown-noser.
    “That’s right, Dylan! The colored orphanage burned to the ground. A dozen or more black men were lynched during the riots.”
    “So…” I said. “What exactly will we be doing to help?”
    “Well, you see, Columbia has a mass of historical material about the riots. Much of it primary sources. As I work on my outline and the actual manuscript, your job will be to help me with the details. The historical context, the source material, all of the information I’ll need to get the story just right.”
    “That’s… incredible,” Dylan said. “No offense,