This story is an experiment. I like to go off on tangents. This may delight some people, and for others it's likely a distraction that disrupts the flow. So it is two stories in one.

*The tangents are bracketed by asterisks.*

I should confess that I have borrowed a certain trope? meme? whatever. I once read a book called "Lizard Music" where all the lizards played instruments and were named Reynold, but everyone knew who they were. And there is a certain island paradise in the South Pacific where all the chickens are named Henrietta. My husband likes to call cats "Puddinhead". And every horse that Nathan Fillion rode in Firefly, no matter what planet he was on, was the same brown horse, named Fred, who is, alas, no longer whinnying with us. This story is dedicated to the late, great Fred. May his afterlife look more like Central Park than the Spanish desert.

Full Moon In Manhattan:

Kill Your Darlings

Friday, April 21.

Richard Rodgers stood - or actually sat - at a turning point. It wasn't right, and it wasn't fair, and it made him a little sick. What was also making him sick was his blood alcohol level, which if a technician had measured it, would have amounted to an embarrassing but not too alarming 0.11 – snockered, but not blotto. It had gone down a bit since his last glass of barley-wine an hour before.

At least it was spring. Okay, almost summer. It was a Friday night, the last full moon before the spring equinox, the weather was warm, and the moon, wait, I already said it was full. It was practically overflowing. Light puddled everywhere.

*Hemingway wrote "Write drunk, edit sober." Hemingway shot his cat. He also shot himself. Why take advice from a creep like that?*

Rick sat naked astride the stolen police horse and smiled in the moonlight at the two approaching Mounted Central Park Police. "Good evening, Officers."

The taller officer smiled at him uncertainly. "How we doing tonight, buddy?"

"We're drunk," said Rick. "And we're on a horse."

The shorter, rounder officer said, "What's with the horse?"

"The horse? No, he's not drunk," Rick grinned. "He's just disorderly."

"So, uh, what seems to be the trouble, son?"

"I'm pregnant."

*Despite what you might think, this author hasn't touched alcohol since you were born, which is a long time if you're over 22*

Friday, April 14
Meredith was sure. But she hadn't even told Rick she suspected. A few nights ago, she'd peed on the little plastic stick, and gotten a blue + symbol, to her chagrin. She'd hidden it in the trash, and kept quiet about the whole thing for a couple of days, thinking she'd maybe just "take care of it" without telling him. She'd made an appointment without telling him. To end the pregnancy quietly. Just. Like. That.

He'd been up writing all night, and as the glorious spring sunshine peeped through the bars on the window of their basement apartment in the Bronx, he heard her run to the bathroom and retch.

"Are you okay in there?" he'd said. He was the kind of man who'd hold a woman's hair when she puked.

"No, I'm not okay," she'd said.

"Did you eat something?"

"No, but maybe I should've."

He thought on that, and his heart spilled onto his bare feet and squeezed down the floor drain in the hallway (did I mention they lived in a converted basement?**).

** I use the word 'converted' loosely, as in the way a contented and slightly grubby native is converted to a conqueror's religion. That never works out well**

Meredith and her mother were currently Not On Speaking Terms, so he called his mom. Martha swore that she was too old to be a grandmother, then she swore by saltine crackers and ginger ale, which seemed to Rick to be the worst possible thing to consume in the morning, but he ran down to the corner store and found a dusty box. The lady running the store arched a brow at him and said, "Ginger ale's third door down, fourth shelf from the top."

He made Meredith try them, and they worked pretty well... "For the time being," she said. Meredith had serious reservations about accommodating a growing child in her Instrument. You know how actors are. She didn't want to ruin her figure, wasn't prepared for the mood swings or the stretch marks. She wasn't sure she'd 'grow to love' being a mother. She was finally bringing in real money as a real actress with a real part in a real show, and all of it threatened by a cluster of little cells the size of a brine shrimp. All her dreams, finally coming true at the ripe age of 23, and a brine shrimp would only get in the way.

"Mistakes happen," she said. "They can be fixed. It's no big deal."

"I was a mistake," Rick said. "But you've said I'm the best thing that ever happened to you."

The look on her face made him wonder if she still felt that way.

"Well, yes, in bed!"***

*** This seems to have been the popular consensus amongst Rick's long train of lovers - and historically speaking, he was nowhere near finding the caboose of his dreams.***

"Rick. If you want this baby so badly, fine. But you'll have to pull your own weight."

"Of course I will. I'll take a real job again." He put his arms around her. He was the best hugger, and that tended to defuse her resistance to just about anything he said.

She leaned against him for a moment, then stiffened. "And make, what, minimum wage plus tips? Write copy? Teach classes at Learning Annex?" she sighed. "We have no money saved. If I get fired from the show, we'll have no insurance."****

**** Welcome to the Third World, AKA the United States of America, bless its boot-strappin' lil' heart.****

He thought about his novel. It was so damn close, but he wanted it to be perfect...just one more editing pass. And it was good. He knew it was good.

"Publish or perish," he said, and with a chill, he realized that on some level, at least for their possible baby, that was actually true. "I'll find an agent. See if I can get an advance."

"Do it soon. Thursday I'll hit the four week mark since my last period. People are already talking about a certain glow, and I had to hurl yesterday when Carrie heated up crab cakes in the the green room microwave."

He smiled at her. "Keep glowing." They kissed. "But stay away from the microwave, ok?"*****

***** He was afraid the leaking microwaves would hurt the baby. Little did he know that she would grow up to win the Nobel Peace Prize for Cuteness*****

She'd said, "Look. If you want me to keep this baby, you have to do three things."

"Try me." He smiled, eagerly. He had a feeling that any baby they had together would be beautiful. He hoped having a kid would bring them closer. They couldn't really be much further apart and still be having such hot sex.

She was glaring at him, her voice sharp. "Look, Kitten. I'm not kidding around."

He sat up straight, eager to please. He could see her expression soften a little. He really was more like a puppy than a kitten. Really, she was more the kitten type. Red hair, green eyes, and tiny little claws. *****

******He could hear Bill Murray's voice in his head and almost said it aloud: 'Dogs and cats, living together...'******

She paced around the room, her heels clattering on the trendy, stain-treated cement floor. "If I lose my job, neither of us has benefits. I'm gonna be out of work for at least the next nine months." (She was being optimistic, there). "So how are we gonna afford it?"

"I'm sure my mom would help us out."

"Seriously? Martha hates me."

"Mother doesn't like you, but that doesn't mean she hates you. I'm sure she thinks she's too young to be a grandmother, but... well, she's not. And once she sees that little bundle of joy..."

"Your mother is practically broke, Ricky. There aren't a lot of parts for women her age."

"I'll get an extra job," he begged.

"Oh, come on, doing what? You barely have time to write as it is. And that leaves me raising the baby all by myself. Not gonna happen."

He smiled bitterly. "There is no way you'll be left to do that on your own. NO way."

"Oh, no? That's what your dad did." He winced. That was below the belt, and she expected him to get mad and storm out. That's what happened whenever anyone mentioned his mysterious parentage.*******

****** Being named Richard Rodgers and being the son of an on/off- Broadway diva... well, sometimes tongues wag. Occasionally people called Meredith Miss Hammerstein, just to piss him off.*******

********The great songwriter, Richard Rodgers, was not Rick's own invisible father. Nor was Rick the Immaculate Conception, although admittedly he sometimes acted that way. ********

******* Although on occasion, the name of God did arise in conversation. Normally when he had his mouth in a place it didn't really belong, such as an ice cream sundae, or similar soft, sweet things.********

He was on his knees, then and there. Her sitting on the bed, him on the crappy little rug.
He snapped the plastic pull ring off the window blind and held it out to her. "Marry me?"

"Oh, for Chrissakes, Rick. Are you serious?"

"Yes. Dead serious. Yes I am. Meredith, will you marry me?" He glanced over at the window treatment. "This is the best I can do at the moment."********

She was dumbfounded. "I don't know?"

******** In retrospect, this turned out to be a bad idea. I guess love is blind.*********

"Well, that's a good start," he said. "Look. I'm almost done with this book, I swear it. I've done so many revisions, had so many rejection slips, ********* another week is all I ask..."

*********26 rejection slips, in addition to the publishers who hadn't even bothered to respond at all

"...Then I won't need to get a second job."

"Rick. You have five days."

"What do you mean?"

"Three business days. Finish the book and find a publisher. You have five days."

"Meredith..."

"Five. Days. I have the appointment Thursday the 20th. If I miss it..." she shook her head. "I won't be missing it unless you have a contract in your hand."

He stared at her, shocked.

She smiled and kissed him gently, then pushed away at his shoulders, stood up and went to the bathroom to pee - again. "Look, Kitten. I actually do believe in you. You're a really good writer! So quit with the revisions. Just go out there and sell the goddamn thing."

Rick loved the female persuasion. He'd always gotten along well with girls; had gone through a decent number of girlfriends and a few "you're really sweet, but let's just be friends" kind of girls who played video games with him at the laundromat. Even a couple of the elusive yet highly prized fuck-buddies: girls who liked him and thought he was cute, but really, seriously, no commitments. And then he'd met Kyra. They fell in love, she dumped him and moved off to England, his life was over. Fortunately she did that in spring when he was nineteen, so he had the summer to fall into pieces then pick himself up again, more or less. It took a few years of working his ass off through college to really get Kyra out of his system and get his confidence back. He figured he already knew how to write, more or less. But he wanted to write spy novels, convincing thrillers that made sense and had a context. So he majored in political science, and minored in humanities. It was a good mix for him. He didn't want to be a one-trick pony.

And then in his junior year at the university, he'd met Meredith, a sophomore, at a Rocky Horror midnight show, of all things. She was dressed as Janet, he as Frank. She was beautiful, so witty, warm, laughing at his jokes, loving his writing, fascinated with Shakespeare and Arthur Miller and Dashiel Hammett. A theater major, she ran with a gaggle of singers and actors and scruffy stagehand types who usually had paint on their clothes and sawdust in their hair. Rick was used to actors and their egos, and he liked the techs, who always seemed so sure of themselves, knew what to do with their hands, always sketching out ideas on napkins or grease-spotted paper place mats. They'd hang around at a diner with her crowd of friends, after a play or a late movie, eating fried mozzarella sticks and pitching forks at the Styrofoam ceiling beams to see if they'd stick, nicking off tiny white balls that drifted like snow down into their ranch dressing. *

*My asterisk-typing finger: it grows weary. You'll have to just fill them in from here.*
*The diner eventually did burn down, and collapsed in a heap of melted plastic. There really hadn't been much holding it up aside from the solidified grease.*

Rick found a way to relax around these vivacious people, found himself able to make them laugh, to keep them interested. To keep Meredith interested. He loved Meredith in the way any intelligent, romantic young man would love a hot, smart, ambitious woman, but he'd tried too hard, too many times, with too many girls who said he was 'too nice'. So he held back, just a little, and she pursued him, just a little. It seemed to work. He respected Meredith's intelligence, and she looked past his goofy bookishness and residual acne, loving the man she hoped he'd become. They brought out the best in one another, at least for the time being, sharing both an easygoing surface and an anxious sub-current. They were young, they were in love, they were romantics, they were both broke, and the sex was amazing. So, they moved in together.

He slaved two jobs to pay off his student loan, they gave up even cheap diners in favor of ramen and PBJs while she completed her junior year at the university. Then she left college for a plum acting gig, with a substantial and steady paycheck that allowed for an actual one-bedroom apartment (even if it was in a basement), a gym membership, trips to the organic grocery, and a brand-new computer so he didn't have to use a goddamn Selectric anymore. He quit his second crap job driving an airport shuttle, and made enough as a freelance newsroom fact checker to pay his share of rent and sundries. Researching the crimes against nature and humanity and grammar was fodder for his already feverish imagination, and while Meredith was gone those long days and nights at rehearsal, he started writing in earnest.* The writing snowballed, taking over his whole heart and mind sometimes, the conversations in his head more important than those in the real world, even those with his very hot but very superficial girlfriend.

*And always his mind teasing out the biggest question of all: "Why?" Around that question, a whole universe can spin.*

Meredith was cast in a daytime TV role as the resident sexpot on "The Hung and the Reckless". Her schedule was jammed with readings, rehearsals, gym time, and of course filming. She'd come home exhausted and cranky. She shot a lot of love (okay, sex) scenes, which always left her feeling awkward, exposed, drained, and disinclined to be touched. Out of occasional loneliness, Rick found himself flirting a bit with the cocktail waitresses at the Old Haunt or the pretty research librarian at the local branch. He looked, but he never touched. He never led anyone on, never messed around. His mother had a few failed marriages, and by contrast he took relationships very seriously indeed, even when they were supposed to be 'just for fun'. When Meredith had time to wind down from her work, she'd become her old exuberant self, excited about his writing, excited about her own work and their future together. Then Rick would come back out of his shell, set his make-believe friends aside, and their flame would reignite.*

*At least until the pregnancy happened, the result of her birthday celebration gone a little too wild. A memorable night, made all the more memorable by a busted condom, and, two weeks later, morning sickness, which she'd somehow managed to hide.*

On Monday the 17th, he went to the computer center at the library and copied his manuscript file onto a couple of floppy disks, ran them down to the local Sir Printsalot service bureau, and got the novel printed, warts and all, to be ready for a 10 a.m. pickup. While he was waiting, he took out his only suit, the blue one he'd worn to graduation. A friend had warned him about this: "You can get away with anything till your 21st birthday, then you'll wake up with a hangover and two extra inches around your waist." It was apparently true. Despite workouts, he'd filled out a little with age and spent too much time sitting, writing; the pants pulled a bit around the middle. But it wasn't too bad. He ironed his blue shirt, put on a tie then took it off, telling himself, "Look serious, but not stuffy." On the way to the service bureau, he'd stopped to have his good shoes shined. Picking up the printed novel was a bit of a moment. Holding 247 pages of his own work, his own baby. His baby. He wondered whether a new baby weighed that much, and it filled him with a heady mix of excitement, fear, and something like love. He'd never really felt anything like it before.*

* (Note: a ream of #20 paper weighs #5. I don't know why it's called #20 paper. When she was born 7 months and 3 weeks after this story takes place, Alexis was a perfect little bundle of adorability at #6, 2oz, and 19.5" long. She had really big feet, too.)*

The Internet not yet being what it was yet to become, pavement was pounded, and he hit every publishing house in a 10-block radius. Nobody was in, nobody was interested... like August in Paris, only April in New York. Hot and discouraged, he came home, got on the phone, calling every publishing house in New York that he hadn't cased on foot, and even a few others in Chicago, not that they mattered. He even thought about calling England but then realized they'd all gone home hours ago. Then a beer or five was pounded as well. Meredith came home tired and queasy, wrinkled her nose at his fuming breath, ate crackers for dinner, and made him sleep on the couch. She fell asleep crying silently. She wasn't sure what she wanted. She wasn't quite sure what she didn't want. Her decisions were usually simple and impulsive. Either way, this was going to have real consequences.

Tuesday April 18, 5 a.m.
England - the entire COUNTRY of frickin' England - was not interested. He got up, phoned every publishing house he could find in the UK, and after running up $127 in phone charges, not so much as a "jolly good idea" to show for it.

He went back to bed, then got up again with Meredith at 8. He begged her: "Please, please just move the appointment. Just a couple more days." Maybe someone would read the manuscript over the weekend. Maybe he'd get lucky.

Meredith frowned a little, wrinkling her nose. "No longer than that, Ricky. If they have an appointment open Monday, I'll move it there. Otherwise it happens Friday."

"Thank you. Just... Thanks. You won't regret it."

Her voice was tart. "I already regret it. Just don't make me regret it more."

Exhausted, he just sat down on the bed "for a minute" and was out cold in short order. She made a phone call, scrawled a note, and left without kissing him goodbye.

Tuesday April 18th, 11 a.m.: He awoke again to find Meredith already gone, and a yellow sticky-note clinging to the coffee grinder where he couldn't possibly miss it. "Clinic appointment moved to Monday 4/24 afternoon." With a little smiley face :-) So she was having second thoughts! Trying to give him a little time. The reality soaked in like spit-up into a tuxedo jacket: it really was all on him, whether this was going to be a well-mommy checkup, or the end of a life he suddenly, desperately wanted to be part of.

Something seized him that might or might not have been either a hangover or sympathetic pregnancy; he didn't even make it to the bathroom, just threw up in the kitchen sink, the garbage disposal running, wondering if he might possibly be able to squeeze his skull into the drain as the blades ground away. Empty, he was suddenly ravenous. He made up some French toast, topped it with some leathery-looking strawberries and the last of the canned whipped cream. Coffee's liquid optimism buoyed his mood a little.

He found his second-best shirt and put the suit back on. He'd hung it up, but it looked even more tired and depressed than he felt. He went back out into the glaring world, clutching his manuscript, which already looked shopworn. Not that he couldn't afford a second printing, but it was beginning to feel unworthy of the effort. Tuesday passed much as Monday.

Wednesday April 19th, early, he called around to all of the publishing houses he'd visited on Monday. Nobody bit, and after the ritual pounding of pavement, in his frustration, he went back down to the Old Haunt to sit in the air-conditioned, ice-clinking geniality of a dark, quiet bar in mid-afternoon. He pulled out his manuscript and re-read it. Pathetic. He was ready to cry over 150 pages of crap, about 50 of mediocrity, and maybe 36 of pure gold.

Wednesday April 19th, 4:15 p.m. He started lining out first words, then paragraphs, then went back and murdered five pages he'd particularly liked. "Kill your darlings," he muttered.

"Pardon me?" A young woman had stopped on her way from the restroom back to the bar. She was gorgeous, blonde, a sight for his sad eyes. Not that he was, uh, looking. She wore a pale-pink, tropical weight linen suit that must have cost $300, plus alterations. It made her look like an expensive mango dessert.

"Oh, sorry. Nothing." Rick said with a shrug.

"Faulkner."* She tilted her head and indicated his manuscript. "Editing?"

*blogs/browbeat/2013/10/18/_kill_your_darlings_writing_advice_what_writer_really_said_to_murder_*
*Kill your darlings. Also, check your optics. No, wait, that's Real Genius.*

He nodded.

She smiled sympathetically. "Like pulling teeth."

"Yeah. I pull 'em out, then scatter them on the floor and step on them, barefoot."

She tittered. "Ow. That bad?"

"I'll still be picking molars out of my left arch over Thanksgiving dinner."

"May I see?"

Rick paused, feeling suddenly protective of his delicate little oeuvre. "Uh..."

"I hate Faulkner," she said. "Obtuse SOB."

*So do I, which is odd because I can be a bit rambly myself.*

He nodded. "I have the same trouble with James Joyce. I want to like him but... why write if you don't want anyone to understand you?"

She sat down next to him, which he found both charming and unnerving. She turned to shake his hand. "I'm Gina Cowell," she smiled.

"Rick Rodgers."

"Junior? Like Rodgers and Hammerstein?"

He chuckled mirthlessly. "You'd be surprised at how often that comes up in my mother's circles. She's a Broadway baby. But, no. Sorry."

Gina grinned. "You need a pen name."

"You think?"

"I do," she said.*

* Not for the first time, and to Rick's eventual amazement, not the last either. *

She continued, "Richard Rodgers sounds like one of those tongue twisters. 'Round and round the rugged rocks, Richard Rogers ran'." She didn't roll her R's. Not an actress, then.

He chuckled. "Wichawd Wodgews. At least you didn't do the Elmer Fudd version."

Gina faked a shudder. "My brother had a speech impediment. Not so funny."

Rick nodded. "Point taken. Crossing Fudd impression off list." He mimed it in his notebook, and Gina chuckled.

She signaled the waitress, who came over and took their order. Rick switched to iced tea, and Gina ordered a white wine spritzer,*

*because it was still the 90s.*

She put her left hand firmly on the manuscript stack and pulled it over her way. Rick noticed her wedding ring with something like relief, because while she was hot, she was also too cool for him. Certainly pretty, definitely sexy, but he already had pretty/sexy at home, and he liked it hot. "You're married."

She nodded, somewhat grimly he thought. "Yup. You?"

"Yeah. We're, uh, expecting, too. At least I hope so." Or did he? Can you write with a little kid around? Do all your stories get sucked out and wiped away by the tantrums and PTA meetings? Not that he'd ever go to a PTA meeting.*

*New York mommies were scary. He didn't write in the park anymore. For that, an adult male must be accompanied by a child.*

"Good for you! Now you work on that pen name, and I'll see if your first five pages grab me."

Rick offered to pay for Gina's drink when the waitress returned, but she said, "Dutch treat's probably best. Less explaining on the credit card bill."

She had a point. Even though they were conducting what he hoped was legitimate business.

"So," he said. "Are you in publishing?"

She chuckled. "Well, I'm in a pub. The rest of me is a ...licist."

It took him a second and he tried not to look disappointed. "A publicist."

"For Indeterminate House. Yes."*

*Some names have been changed in this story because well, reality is a bitch and I did agree to the terms*

He perked up. "Oh!"

"Yes. Oh! But I'm looking for a new position. Something not so fusty. What I really want to do is edit insanely good manuscripts and go to a lot of cocktail parties where I'll meet a wealthy replacement for my current husband."

"So your marriage is going along well, then."

"Swimmingly." She bent her head to read, waving her hand to remind him. "Nom de plume. Get to work."

He'd already been mulling this over for years; he had a few in mind. Like any aspiring writer hoping to be noticed as Serious About his Craft, he carried a pocket-size MuleSkin notebook. Thumbing through, he found potential pseudonyms interspersed among other notes and crude sketches about explosives and death and cocktail recipes and tips on writing and inspiring quotes and disjointed phrases waiting to find a home in somebody's mouth or mind. As he collected the names, he listed them on the back of a simple white business card, of which he'd had thirty printed up: "Richard Rogers, Writer." Elmer Fudd again. Hell.

On the back, in his smallest, neatest block print:

Richard Nathan Poe (this was a nod to Last of the Mohicans' Natty Bumppo as well as Edgar Allen Poe).
Richard Edgars. Edge Richards. Richard Lovecraft. Richard Spade. Miles Richards. Derrick Storme.
Richard Elliott. Richard Case. Richard J. Garfield. Richard Serling. Richard Blake. Richard Orson Mills.
Richard V. Wells. He crossed that one out, wanting to save it for science fiction if he ever got into the genre.
Richard Case, (he'd written it twice) Richard Fleming, Richard Bond, Richard Summers, Casey Richards, Boris Spinalzo.
And one he'd come up with at the park, watching a couple of drunks play a slowed-down version of speed chess

- or was it in Ireland at that Stately Home?:
Richard Castle*

* At least he thought it was speed chess. But he'd been to Powerscourt estate in Ireland, a Palladian mansion designed by German architect Richard Cassell in the 1700s. Cassell had anglicized his own name to 'Richard Castle'. Rick had been looking for a nom de plume for so long, he'd forgotten that he'd already found one.*

Halfway through page 2, Gina murmured, "Wow. You start off with a bang, don't you."

He tried to conceal his excitement, and also to avoid any double entendre that she might consider sexual. "I tried. Hopefully not too hard. Too much." He blundered to a stop.

"Doesn't show," she grinned. "This feels easy. If the whole book's like this, it's a shoo-in."

"Is that, uh, good?"

She took a sip of her spritzer. "M-hm. I'll just dive back in."

She passed the first five pages with barely a blink, and continued on unbidden to the end of the chapter. "I see this novel's steam-powered," she purred, and her coral-colored lips sucked on the slim red plastic cocktail straw.

She looked at him a long moment, considering, and he found himself considering her, too. He was glad they were both previously engaged. Otherwise this thing might get complicated. If this thing was anything at all.

"If that's the only suit you have, pawn something and buy a new one," she said. "I'm meeting with Tracy Todd for lunch on Thursday at the Algonquin."

"Tracy Todd." Holy shit. "You know Tracy Todd?"

"She's looking for something up this grimy little alley. Thought I should come down to the Old Haunt to see if I could find anyone looking like they wanted to shoot themselves."

"Desperation's an ugly thing."

"No. It just means that one is willing to deal. This isn't your only copy, is it?"

"Oh, no. It's all backed up. Double backed up. On disk."

"Smart boy. Print out an extra copy and mail it to yourself..."*

*Do writers still do that? Should I be doing that now? Is email enough? *

"We don't want anyone else taking credit for this baby."

"That really happens?"

"You should know that's standard procedure."

"Guess I need coaching, huh?"

She smiled. "Maybe grooming's the better word. But I think you're a natural extrovert. You'll do fine."

His voice cracked a little. "Extrovert?" It wasn't true. He was actually an introvert who bluffed really well.

She had taken his business card and was reading the names on the back.

"Yes, Mr... Castle. Only extroverts and crazy people talk about killing people in public. You're not crazy, are you?"

"Aside from talking to invisible friends, no."

Thursday, April 20.

Gina met with Tracey Todd. Tracey Todd did not bite, but did give some constructive feedback, such as "It would make very nice bird cage lining." *

Gina called Rick. "Tracey has her head up her ass."

*If you've ever lived with a bird, you know they spray their poo around all over the walls, just about anywhere but inside on the paper. So really his manuscript would have been relatively safe. He considered changing its title to "In a Hail of Bird Shit" and resubmitting it, just to see if it would hit any fans.*

Meredith changed her appointment to Monday. Rick went out and bought her more crackers, and gave her the best backrub of her entire life.

Friday April 21, 7 p.m.

He met up with Gina again at the Old Haunt, sitting in a booth near the dart boards. "This is a good book," she insisted. "I just need a little more time."

Three older men and a woman came in, ordered fish and chips and drinks, talking and laughing. Rick used his manuscript as a coaster, glaring down at it.

He sighed. "I'm out of time. Just... look, I appreciate your trying, I really do. But clearly there's no market for a mystery about heroin-smuggling grunge rockers, so never mind."

Gina stood up and said, "I think there is a market for heroin-smuggling grunge rock mysteries. Hang onto my card. Try taking Tracy's suggestions to heart. Maybe it does have too much character development. Maybe there is too much violence and not enough explicit sex. I don't know, but there's a great book in there, somewhere."

Before she left, she said one more thing, rather too loudly: "I just hope I can get you published before some other genre specialist snaps you up, Richard." She glanced over at the four people at the next table, opened her mouth as if to greet them, then left her card on their table. "Sorry, I'm running late to an appointment or I'd be more interested in interrupting your dinner," she smiled. Rick found out later that the appointment was with a carton of Rum Raisin ice cream and a new Michael Crichton novel, but they didn't need to know that.

Rick called after her, "Thanks. But that doesn't help me right now." She just kept walking, and waved back at him over her shoulder, her adorable little hips swaying.

The waitress came by and said sympathetically, "Your date coming back?"

He shook his head. "She's not my date. I was hoping she'd be my agent."

The waitress, who was likely a writer herself, said, "Ah. Fodder for the next story, huh?" She handed him a menu. "Nothing cures what ails you like a plate of bangers and mash."

She was actually right about that. He was suddenly hungry. "Salad, too. And another barley wine." He'd never had one before. It was tasty: drier than cider, sweeter than beer. Fizzy.

"Five minutes. We're getting busy now," she said. She turned to the next table. "Hey, Jimmy! Read your latest book."

Rick, who'd been taking notes about the brown-eyed waitress in his Muleskin, paused and looked over at the other party. Holy shit. James... holy shit. His favorite author.

He was stunned to realize that the others around the table were also authors - "Oh, crap," he thought. "That's Stephen -. Crap, crap, crap. Thank GOD! Crap. You have to say something. I wonder if that's the lady who writes the cat mysteries. SHIT! Leave them alone. Don't say anything. Say something! This man produces action movies, for God's sake, could you throw a napkin at him? Come on, Rick!"

But he didn't. He did what he always did in public places: he listened, and he wrote. They were talking about the ins and outs of the publishing industry, about who could be trusted and who was nothing but trouble, who was up-and-coming and who really needed to get their ass in the chair and write. They talked about tours and advances. But mostly, they just made small talk over their meal, and weren't the fish and chips great here, and how the Old Haunt is just the sweetest old place even if past its heyday, and how Hammett's picture was still up on the wall and rumored to be haunted, how it tipped once a while on its nail.

Rick hadn't had barley wine before. It was like beer, only sweeter, and went down very easily that warm evening. He ate his dinner, then pushed the empty plate away, sweating in his too-tight suit. The waitress cleared his place and smiled down at him. "Anything else?"

"Sure!" he grinned. "Howsabout another barley. Wine?"

She tilted her head. "You know it has a higher alcohol content than beer, right? We like to call it 'instant asshole' around here."*

* Really, that was just her. It had also been termed 'fistfight in a bottle.'*

Rick said gallantly, "I was an asshole before I even started tonight, so you can't be held responsible for my actions." Really, she was kind of cute.* Built for comfort, short, with a round, heart-shaped face, brown eyes, reddish-brown hair. Just looking at her made him feel sort of cheerful.

* If the waitress resembles this writer at 30, that's probably not a coincidence.*

"No, your actions are strictly your own," she grinned. She cleared the plates from the Famous Authors' table. They ordered another round.

She came back a few minutes later and set a drink down by him while he wrote feverishly, then she dropped off the drinks across the way. Shortly thereafter, a large hand tapped Rick on the shoulder. "Excuse me." An older man was standing over Rick: the tall, slim, silver-haired man from the next table. "It appears I may have stolen your drink."

Rick gaped up at him. "I, uh," He pointed to his glass, then sniffed at it. "You're right. This isn't barley wine." His nostrils flared. "I think it's Sam Hill IPA."

"Ah. So I stole your barley wine, and you've borrowed my beer."

"Oh, you can, uh, here. Take it, I haven't touched it. It's on me, Mr., Uh, wow. You're ..."

"Steve, last I checked." Seeing that Rick was about to melt into his booth seat, Steve kindly offered his hand to shake. "That your manuscript?"

"Uh..." Rick swallowed. "It's, I hear it's more of a place-mat. Maybe a doorstop. Not sure yet."

Steve sucked his teeth. "That bad."

"No, no, I... I dunno." He patted it sadly. "I liked it for about 20 minutes, then I tried to get it published."

"I heard your agent talking about it before she left."

"Uh, well, she, she's not my agent."

"I wouldn't let Gina Cowell get away, if I were you. She's going places."

"You know her?"

"Heard of her. I didn't say she was there yet. Just that she's going."

Rick nodded glumly. "It appears that she's already gone, in my case."

Steve chuckled. "Look, if it has character development and violence, it has half a chance. So I tell you what. Let's get you another glass of barley wine, and we'll play some darts. If you can beat me at darts, I'll let you give me a pitch on your book. Deal?"

Rick stood abruptly and shook his hand again. "Sure!" His expression fell. "But I'm really bad at darts."

"Jimmy over there counts it a good game if he hits the right wall."

"So I have a chance then."

Half an hour later he was roaring drunk on barley wine, and he'd barely even managed to hit the board.*

*It's possible he wasn't quite as drunk as they thought. It's possible that he was milking the time with them, trying to get them comfortable with him. If you asked him directly, I'm not sure what he would have said, but he would have been smiling.*

But he was so excited and hopeful to be even in the same room as four of his favorite authors that he had them all laughing, even the shy and extremely-famous other Steven, who was actually wearing a fake beard so nobody would recognize him. Finally the woman who liked to write about crime-solving pets said, "Look, Ricky, if you're no good at darts, what are you good at?"

"Research!" Rick cried, threw a dart, over his shoulder for (rather dangerous) comic effect, and inadvertently hit a bulls-eye. He didn't even see it land.

Jimmy, a sort of stocky fellow, slapped his knee laughing. He'd worn glasses all his life and it was a hoot to see someone who was worse at darts than he was. Followed by an insanely lucky shot Rick didn't even seem to have noticed. "Did you see that?"

Rick said dimly "What?" then his attention was captured by Sue, the Cat Lady. Shy Steve stalked over to the dart board and peered at the bulls-eye, then looked back over at Rick, and smiled under his fake beard.

Sue said, "Well, if you're so great at research, maybe you can answer this:" Her eyes twinkled with mischief. "What's it like to ride a horse naked?"

Rick paused. "I don't know, I mean I've ridden plenty of horses. My mom rode a cowboy once.* So I'll find out."

*This is probably not what he meant to say, but it is also probably true, so he didn't correct himself.*

"Oh, really."

"Yeah. Really. I'll find out. And when I hand you the detailed report, you have to agree to read the first chapter of In a Hail of Bullets."

"How do we know you'll follow through?" Steve handed Rick his business card, and Rick tucked it into his shirt's breast pocket.

Rick nodded over at his manuscript. "Hold it hostage. No peeking. I'll be back in an hour."

"You trust us with it?" said Shy Bearded Steve.

Rick shrugged. "If it's no good, you won't use it. If it is good, your reputation precedes you - you're all too decent to take advantage."

*He was taking the chance that they'd prove him wrong; he realized it was possible that he'd be found dead in an alley three days later, and his manuscript would earn one of his favorite authors a butt-load of money. He considered this a reasonably poetic way to die.*

He tossed $25 on his table to cover his round of drinks and dinner. (This was 1993, remember, when a New York City craft beer didn't set you back $10 a glass.) The waitress stopped him. "You're not driving, right?"

"Nope. I'm riding a horse." He leaned in and whispered, "Thanks for switching the drinks! I could just kiss you."

She twinkled up at him. "I imagine you could."

He gave her two big smacks, one on each cheek, and she laughed, slapping his butt* gently with her bar towel on the way out.

*His pants looked a little too tight, but she didn't mind.*

Friday, April 21, 9:17 p.m.

He was never exactly sure how he pulled it off. He took a cab to west 89th, where the Claremount Riding Academy had served the West Side for a century or so. He knew the park police still stabled horses there. It was a full moon, about 9:30 pm on a late April evening, and a total lunar eclipse over Australia had been showcased at the planetarium in Central Park. The show had let out. Families and astronomy nerds abounded in the green and grassy expanses of New York's Crown Jewel. Enthusiasts had set up telescopes to watch the moon, swollen and white. Everyone was still in shirtsleeves in the soft mid-spring air.

A few extra patrol horses had been brought in to contribute to the general air of orderliness. They were being changed off from rider to groom, as they'd had a long day, and there were also quite a few foot patrols in the park. Rick had the cab stop at West 87th, surveyed the scene, and, doffing his miserable suit jacket, laid it over a homeless guy sleeping in a doorway. He walked over to the equine entrance and just stood in line with the service folks, waiting in their ties and pale blue shirts. He just stood there with what he hoped was a demeanor of calm expectation. When the officer turned his back in one direction and the other groomsman led the other horse away, Rick chose a tall gray gelding and mounted easily, aside from the butt seam of his pants splitting open. He found himself riding along peaceably on an Appaloosa as pale and dappled as the moon itself. The horse knew its own way into the park, which was a good thing because Rick was still pretty blasted and a bit turned around, having forgotten somehow whether the moon rose in the east or west on this coast. Blame the barley-wine.

The horse was not loath to leave the main path. Rick let it have its head into the pale and magical drift of blooming cherry trees, and they proceeded down a shadowy side-lane where the gasps and moans of … oh, lets call them people in love – emanated from the undergrowth. He kept going, feeling a little uneasy, and the lane opened out into a broad green belt overlooking the Lake.

"You think this is the place, Fred?" He called all horses Fred.

Fred snorted and stamped.

For a city kid, Rick had actually spent a quite bit of time on horseback. He'd stayed a few summers at farm camps and dude ranches. (He also called all chickens Henrietta, and all cats Puddinghead, but that's another story). He'd also gone on location once or twice when his mom had taken parts in Westerns. He liked the American Southwest a lot. He liked horses, he liked Fred, and from Fred's relaxed bearing, he had a feeling that Fred returned the sentiment.

*On the other hand, Rick didn't like the deserts of Spain. No matter how many times he'd read Don Quixote, the trees just looked too weird. It put him off both Spaghetti and Westerns for two whole weeks after they got back from Europe.*

They skirted unseen along the edge of the bowl-shaped lawn, next to a low and useless fence, underneath the spreading branches of a grand oak, the horse stopped. In the oak's shelter, Rick dismounted and looped Fred's bridle over a fence post, just in case. He disrobed and hid his clothes in a bush, hoping they wouldn't get stolen. He climbed up on the horse and considered the sensation. Bored, Fred shifted from foot to foot and sighed.

The saddle felt, well, leathery. No, more like a sweaty booth seat in a greasy spoon restaurant. It stuck to his butt a little, and not in a pleasant way. He climbed back down and loosened the flank cinch across Fred's belly, then the other straps, thanking his lucky stars – moon? - that his mother had dumped him at dude ranches instead of baseball camps. He heaved the saddle off, setting it quite neatly on the oak's low, heavy branch. He climbed on again, this time much more awkwardly since he didn't have stirrups.

Fred sighed again. Clearly this man was a drunken idiot. At least he smelled like fermented barley.

The felted wool saddle blanket was sort of prickly.*

*It's not that Rick minded on the whole, but his genitals had their own opinion, and it wasn't the first time he'd lost an argument with them.*

Off came the blanket. He draped it over the obliging branch.

Now Fred was bareback. The horse got excited about this, actually tossed his head a little, nickering softly. He could smell freshly-mown grass and the sweet sap rising through hardening new leaves, the clover producing tiny droplets of nectar. The fermented-barley-smelling, inebriated young man stood next to him, singing "When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, That's Amoré" and peeing on a fence post.

*Fred peed too, feeling sorry for the man and his tiny penis. He wondered how men even got those little things to work, and that made him feel a bit better about the loss of his own balls. All in all, it was a grand night for Fred.*

Done with the peeing, Rick walked up to face Fred and rubbed him right between the eyes, just where he really liked it. Fred nudged his forehead into the caress.

"So, Fred, what do you think? Wanna lose the bridle?"

What could Fred do but nod?

"Yes you do. Now, this means I trust you, so you have to behave. That's the social contract. Be a good horse."

Rick removed the bridle and hooked it on a branch. He climbed up onto the fence, and Fred – who knew what he was doing and was definitely up for a good time – let Rick clamber onto his back from there. The young man felt suddenly very insecure, and lay down almost flat on the horse's back, fully in contact and completely aware of its power as its muscles bunched and flexed beneath his body. "Gee," said Rick. "this is kind of overwhel-"

"Gee?" thought Fred. "If you insist..."

The horse took off like a rocket, bursting out of the trees, Rick clinging like a kitten to the back of a rabid Saint Bernard. Horse and rider galloped at full speed over the meadows of Central Park, then slowed to a canter. Scrutinizing up at the moon through telescopes, the astronomers kept to the smaller side lawns for some reason, so barely a soul saw them. Fred had been cantering for only a few minutes when he slowed to a trot (which was somewhat bouncy and unpleasant for Rick), then a walk. He selected a lovely clover patch on an expanse of green lawn tipped with silver, the evening still too warm for dew to have fallen. The horse bent to eat. Rick sat up on Fred's back, trembling and trying to catch his breath, exhilarated. They spent a few peaceful moments like that, the horse cropping clover while Rick stared up at the moon, transfixed. Then with a deep underground gurgle, and a hiss like thirty giant pissed-off water cobras, the sprinklers on the west lawn started up, and the horse gleefully charged through the jets of water, Rick whooping and hollering and holding on for dear life as the water drenched him, clutching at hanks of the horse's mane, the flying drops catching tiny moon-rainbows as they flew around the dancing horse and his rider. Apparently the astronomers had been warned about the sprinkler schedule. Rick had not.

*Someone probably called the police around that time. How long can luck last before it runs out?*

Fred decided that he really wanted to take Rick for a swim, and they headed for the lake. The horse plunged into the water, reared up, and Rick slid off backwards, splashing into the weeds and murk. Really, Fred did it at just the right place: any deeper and Rick might have lost his footing, any shallower, he'd have slammed his back on a rock or been covered with mud. Rick grasped desperately and came out with a water lily in hand. Standing hip-deep, he chastised the horse, "Hey, man, a little help here?" Fred shied away and swished his tail in the water.

"Come on, Fred. We're buddies, right?"

The horse took the lily as a peace offering. Rick sloshed over to him and clambered onto his back after a few clumsy, wet tries, his legs flailing. He thought, "So this is why pants were invented."

*I've decided to delete the part about the frog. Author's privilege.*

*Note: Wet balls don't feel that great on a wet horse's back, but it's still better than stiff leather. At least, according to my source.*

Rick and Fred ambled across the lake to its eastern shore, leaving a trail of moonlight and water lilies waving in the horse's wake. Fred waded out, and they stopped on the edge between lawn and water. The horse had grown tired now. He was up past his bedtime. But the two of them looked great. Water kissed their skin, making them glow like marble, their hair smoothed by the moisture so nothing moved in the still air. The man was motionless, watching the moon rising higher, its path shimmering on the lake.

He thought of the tiny new life inside Meredith. He wondered whether his little sea monkey would ever get a chance to smell an evening breeze, to see the moon, to ride a horse or to run through the sprinklers, laughing. He whispered, "There has to be a way." He didn't think getting naked on a horse was going to be much use, though. His broad shoulders sagged a little, and he looked a bit like that "End of the Trail" painting with the sad Native American. Only he still had some hope left, because he was naked and on a horse, and he was pregnant, and it was spring.

He froze even more still when he heard a young girl's voice behind his right flank, on the path past the east lake lawn.

"I just love how real the park statues look in the moonlight. Wow, that one's amazing. I never noticed it before."

And then a woman's voice joined her. "You can almost see them breathing, huh, Katie?"

"Yeah. Thanks for taking me out tonight. The planetarium was so cool, and the park's like a whole 'nother world at night-time."

A man's voice corrected Katie. "Whole other world."

Rick stayed still. He could practically hear Katie's eyes roll. "Other."

He wondered whether he'd correct his own child. He suspected yes.

The woman tutted. "Don't pick on her, Jim. We're celebrating."

"You're right, Johanna. That's a whole 'nother thing."

Rick smiled to himself. What would it be like, to have a real family all together? To have it seem so easy? To have people there for you, to be loved unconditionally? Of course, his mom loved him unconditionally. When she was around. Which wasn't often. Otherwise, he seemed to be spending a hell of a lot of time jumping through flaming hoops, and occasionally catching his fur on fire.

Johanna said, "You're graduating from eighth grade in a few weeks. We won't have much time before you're too busy to look at the moon."

Katie said decisively, "I'll never be too busy to look at the moon."

To Katie's delight and amazement, the equestrian statue straightened, then twisted just his upper body around to look over his shoulder at her family. Edged with white light by the moon, his face was shadowed, just the barest flash of light on his jaw betraying a dimpled smirk. He said, "I should hope not."

He mostly just caught their brief moment of reaction, didn't even see what they looked like. Oh, how they jumped! Katie gave a little squeal: "Oh, my God, gross!" and her mother clapped her palms over her daughter's eyes.

The dad, Jim, clenched his fists and stepped protectively forward, spluttering, "What the hell do you..." and Rick spurred Fred (who'd been nearly asleep on the hoof) into a gallop again, riding north along the lake shore then disappearing into the trees.

He called out, "Hi-Yo Silver, Awaaaayyyyyy!" He could hear them all laughing, which was as it should be. Nobody had seen much more than the moon.

Jim turned to Johanna and quipped, "And he didn't even stop to let us thank him."

Katie was doubled over in embarrassed giggles, "Oh, my God, that was so... WEIRD."

"Language, young lady. 'Oh my Gosh' will do just as well."

*Seriously, Katie Beckett had seen more details of masculine anatomy at the Metropolitan Museum of Art by the time she was six. It was no big deal.*

Rick was arrested a while later, while trying to find his clothes. Since Fred's tack was also AWOL, and Rick seemed harmless enough, the equestrian officers ambled along with them on their own horses until Fred returned to the place where they'd both divested. Rick put his clothes back on. While he helped dress Fred, he stepped in a freshly laid pellet of horse poo.

"We should get him back to the stable and rubbed down," Rick said. "Wouldn't want His Majesty to catch a chill." So, since they didn't have a squad car and things had gotten a bit busy due to the full moon and all, the officers actually let him come back to the stables with them, chatting all the way, and Fred got a nice rubdown. The horse gave Rick something that looked a lot like a kiss goodbye before he tucked into his bag of oats. Then they took Rick down to the Twelfth Precinct, where he was booked on drunk-and-disorderly and indecent exposure charges. Also horse thieving.*

*Which is still a hanging offense in some counties. Can you believe it?*

Friday, 11:49 p.m.

Really, he should have called Meredith to bail him out. But he figured she'd be sleeping. He was wrong.*

*She wasn't even home. He'd left her a note. He hoped she wasn't mad that he was out so late. She was actually out with another man, a director, explaining about how she might be getting married and having a baby, or she might be free starting Monday, and she wasn't quite sure which yet, and that she'd noticed that aside from the morning sickness, being pregnant made her super-horny, and...*

He found the card in the breast pocket of his shirt and dialed Steve's number.

Steve had a brand-new portable cellular phone, cutting-edge in communications technology. It was about the size of a brick, with an 8" antenna sticking out of it. "Steve, here."

"Hi, uh, Steve, this is Rick."

"Rick?"

"Richard Rodgers. With the darts?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah!" Steve was still in the bar. It had grown quieter, and the four writers were sitting around the table, paging through Rick's manuscript. "How are you, Rodgers?"

"I'm uh, calling to make my report. About the horse."

"What horse?"

"You guys said if I take a naked ride on a horse I can report back to you..."

"You mean you actually... You've only been gone ninety minutes, tops," Steve looked around the table, laughing. "He did it."

Jimmy looked up at him, irritated to be interrupted in his reading. "What."

Rick's voice sounded a little desperate. "...And then you'd read the first five pages."

Steve said, smiling, "Well, I'm afraid it's not quite going to work out that way."

"But," Rick was starting to panic. "I'm in jail, and..."

"Seriously?" Steve put his hand over the mouthpiece and grimaced to his friends, "The poor kid's in jail." He spoke into the phone. "Which precinct?"

"Twelfth, I think. Is this the twelfth?"

The desk officer, a jovial African American man with a fro and a big mustache*, nodded and took a weary, grimacing sip of coffee. The mustache wilted slightly, and may possible have dissolved a little in the acidic brew.

* The officer is best envisioned with the looks and delivery of actor Ron Glass. This is a suggestion, not a misrepresentation of his character or career.

Steve finished his beer and motioned the waitress to call a cab. "Okay, Ricky. We'll be right down. I just have to put your manuscript back in order..."

"What, you mean you dropped it?" Rick's voice squeaked.

"No, no. We're all reading it. It's great." There was a long pause. "Ricky?"

"It's what?"

"At least I like it. You folks like it?"

Rick could hear something like assenting grunts from the other end of the line.

"Stephen thinks it should be scarier."

"I can do scary. Er. Scarier." said Rick.

"Sue thinks it needs animal interest of some kind."

"I, uh, isn't that her thing?"

"No matter. Anyway, just sit tight. We'll come bail you out."

"You guys. You guys are just the best. You will not regret this." He hung up the phone and cried. Just a little. Manly tears. Fatherly, manly tears.

The desk officer handed him a tissue and said, "So you're a horse-thief and a writer of fiction."

Rick nodded.

He smirked under his luxuriant mustache. "I believe that's the career track for going into politics."

Three of the four writers came down to bail Rick out of jail. He got his manuscript back, covered with notes in four different styles of handwriting. A lot of those notes said things like, "Good!", "Wow!" "Haha!" "Keep the darlings, kill the adverbs," and "Watch for Run-On Sentences".

Sue admonished Rick. "I never really thought you'd do it. I feel bad."

The officer said, "It could be worse. He was just drunk, and it was the horse who was disorderly." He glanced at the young man with a fatherly smile. "If you're really nice to the judge you'll probably get off with community service."

Rick sighed. "With any luck, it'll be mucking out the stable."*

*Actually, Rick's luck was a good deal better, with far-reaching repercussions. His sterling research skills somehow filtered in to the City Attorney's office. Rick was pressed into community service, cross-referencing on a series of anomalies that he doggedly traced to a New York City Procurement division's embezzlement scheme. When Rick brought the culprits to light, the City Attorney was able to recover millions of dollars worth of stolen money in hidden accounts. Having a celebratory drink with the City Attorney himself, they found they had a lot in common, became fast friends, and eventually friendly golf rivals. Rick played golf the same way he played darts, and for that matter, women: enjoyably and strategically... with occasional purposeful losses. Eventually that same attorney parlayed the successful investigation on city official corruption to beat Michael Bloomberg in the mayoral race. So if you've ever wondered what kind of favor the Mayor owed to Rick Castle, now you know.*

When Rick got home, he left his horse-apple-sullied dress shoes on the stairs down into the basement. Meredith was sound asleep. He took a shower, washing off manly tears, mud, and horse sweat. He wrote her a note and taped it to the toilet where she couldn't miss it.

"Made some new friends in publishing tonight.
They'll put in a good word for me.
Referred me to ground floor in new house called Black Pawn
I think it's gonna be fine. We'll talk in morning."

XO

Rick

P.S. PLEASE DO NOT GO TO CLINIC WITHOUT ME.

XO

•

He dried off carefully and slipped into bed next to Meredith. The moon was too high to shine right in the window, but its reflected glow, and that from the streetlights, cast softly across the room. They didn't have air conditioning, and the night was still warm. She'd kicked the sheets down past her knees, and she wore nothing but bikini panties and a tank top. It had slipped up. She lay on her back, body twisted in sleep, a delicate hand splayed across her still-flat belly. Rick gingerly slipped his hand beneath his girlfriend's, wishing he could protect the tiny life inside her. There were some darlings he'd have to kill to further his writing career. But not this one.

He thought back to the first book he could remember reading as a toddler, put his head down on the pillow, closed his eyes, and whispered, "Goodnight, moon."