Kate sat at a bistro table by the café window in her sweater with her laptop open, thinking too hard about what to write. She had an idea for a story, but every time she typed a line, she deleted it. Nothing sounded right. Not: Once upon a time a mean guy walked into a coffee shop, and I killed him… Or: On a cold autumn day, a golden-eyed demon strutted into a café and couldn’t figure out what a frappe was… The next voice she heard in her head was Lily’s: Maybe if you actually went to your literature classes, you’d know how to write a good story. “I resent that my conscience’s voice is the
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