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Toontown. It really was a cartoon world.
    Alex straightened up as the assembled fans and photographers zeroed in on them. He felt a sudden, palpable rush of longing and excitement. He adjusted his sunglasses and ducked his head down, prolonging the moment. For this brief second, he was someone they’d come to see—not a star, obviously, but maybe the sitcom best friend, or the host of a PBS wildlife series.
    â€œHey!” Figgy called. She was still in the car, reaching out and tugging at the tail of his jacket. “Little help?”
    Alex swiveled and offered his hand. Figgy bounded up and plowed into the crowd, immediately falling into what appeared to be a strictly understood protocol. The actors and nominees flitted around the edges of the press lineup, pollinating at ripe spots along the way. Meanwhile the unfamous were funneled into the faster-moving current at the center.
    â€œCome on,” said Figgy over her shoulder, sticking her elbow back and guiding his hand around her inner arm. “Squire me.”
    Alex gave her a squeeze and started to join the procession, but within a few steps, Figgy was intercepted. In a flurry of squeals, a press agent from the network introduced herself as “one of the Melissas,” issued a command on her walkie-talkie, uncoupled Figgy from Alex, and herded her away into the Tricks posse: five writers, two network executives, and Katherine Pool, the Ozarks-born, Yale-educated actress who played Toni, the housewife-turned-madam.
    â€œFiggy honey—don’t you clean up nice?” Katherine exclaimed, pulling her in for a stiff embrace. “Heels even! I don’tthink I’ve ever seen you out of those marvelous clogs!”
    Figgy grimaced and poked out one foot. “I’ve already got blisters. But look at you! That dress? Gorgeous.”
    Katherine made a little curtsey, and the two of them headed toward the press line, all smiles, no visible sign whatsoever of the epic power plays they’d waged against each other over the past year. Katherine was an incredible actress—she had a wide-open, plate-shaped face that appeared to be constantly churning on some deep, mysterious thought—but she was famously difficult. Most of it was standard diva stuff—lateness, rudeness, a refusal to wear anything that didn’t show off her yoga-toned arms—but her big problem revolved around the show itself. She spent much of the season complaining that her dialogue was substandard and out-of-character and, worst of all, there wasn’t enough of it.
    Alex made his way into the crowd, joining a lane of traffic just behind the press line. After a few steps, he realized he’d fallen in with the wife pack, a cluster of smooth-skinned, spooked-looking ladies from the leafier districts of the 310. He recognized a few as spouses of guys on Figgy’s staff—they were stay-at-home moms, mostly; they met up for coffee or play dates when production kept their husbands at work until all hours. But just as he’d avoided them at work parties and ignored their occasional emails, he now took a few steps sideways out of their wake.
    He didn’t dislike them—not at all! They were all nice enough, and of course he had nothing but respect for their choices as women and mothers. But he wasn’t one of them. His life maybe wasn’t as over-the-top as all this, but it was at least vaguely creative. Alex was an account manager for BestSelf, a boutique ad shop that worked with nonprofits—or as described by his boss, the aggro-smarmy Jeff Kanter, BestSelf was “a values-driven agency.” At the moment, Alex was working on testicular cancer, organic school lunches, and shaken babies. He took pride in finding clever ways to employ the dark arts of marketing for righteouscauses. Nonprofits didn’t bring in big money, but Alex did okay, well enough to have covered them through the lean years. He’d also taken full