The Sequel Read Free Page A

I’ve never seen you before. My work … It’s my own.”
    Zachary stops as the Don’t Walk sign locks on red. A yellow cab swerves to the curb to let off a passenger. Zachary steps back and finally turns to face his accuser.
    But Cardoza has vanished.
    Zachary gazes behind him, then up and down the side street. No sign of the man. Zachary realizes he is sweating. Not because he feels any guilt. He knows he didn’t steal anyone’s work.
    It’s the casual menace on Cardoza’s face. The certainty of an insane person.
    He knows where I live. He was waiting for me.
    The reading room is more crowded than the day before. People occupy the tables and the armchairs. One man has spread his papers over a table, taking up at least six places.
    Zachary glances behind him. Despite its size, the room suddenly seems more vulnerable. If Cardoza rumbles in, there’s no place to hide. Nowhere to run.
    Laptop tucked under his arm, Zachary walks along the aisle to the back. He recognizes the same two bearded Asian men, Chinese newspapers spread out in front of them. A broad stairway leads down. The steps are painted bright yellow, red, and blue. A hand-painted monkey on a poster points down. A dialogue balloon above his head: THIS WAY, KIDS.
    Zachary finds himself in the children’s room. Shelves on three walls jammed with books. Picture books are scattered on a low, round table surrounded by tiny wooden chairs. Tall cardboard cutouts of book characters stand watch. A bright blue Dr. Seuss creature. Tinkerbell dressed as a Disney princess. A Star Wars droid.
    Behind them, Zachary spots a long, dark wood table. Grownup height. Chairs on both sides. He positions himself behind the cardboard characters. Sets his laptop down. There is no one here, not even a librarian. The kids are all in school.
    Quiet. The air a little warm, a little stuffy and dry. But the perfect place to work, hidden from the world.
    He takes a moment to catch his breath. Glances at the framed book cover posters on the wall. All fairy tales. Rapunzel … Snow White and Rose Red … Hansel and Gretel …
    Dark, nasty stories, he thinks.
    He opens the laptop and brings up his Word program. He likes to start a book by making random notes. Plot ideas. Characters to populate the story. Story twists. Stream-of consciousness thoughts. The research will come later.
    To write the first book, he had to learn almost as much about the brain and its functions as Striver. He types the name: Howard Striver. He types: Book Two?
    Am I really going to write a sequel?
    He left Dr. Striver living entirely inside his own brain. Striver had expanded his consciousness enough that his inner world was big enough and interesting enough to inhabit without any outside stimulation.
    But a sequel could not take place inside Striver’s mind. Too constricting for even the cleverest, most brilliant writer.
    How do I bring Striver back? How do I pull him from living inside his own mind, into the world where he can interact with people once again?
    And once he is back, what will his mission be?
    Zachary knows he has already done all he can do in the government-agents-out-to-capture-Striver’s-Brain department. To pursue that plot would be writing the exact same book again.
    What new brain powers can I give him?
    Time travel?
    Can the secret to time travel be locked away somewhere in the human brain, waiting to be discovered?
    â€œToo outlandish,” Zachary murmurs. “Too science-fictiony. Bor-ring.”
    He types: Do I really want to write a sequel? Am I fighting it because I know it won’t compare to the first book?
    He hears voices upstairs. A woman laughs. Chairs scrape the floor. The light shifts from the narrow, high windows up at street level. A gray shadow slants over the table.
    Zachary checks the time on his phone. It is two hours later. He has been sitting here for two hours with nothing to show for it. Nothing on the screen. No