At 9:45 Rayford sat straight up in his bed. He had dozed in his clothes with the television droning, but something had caught his attention. He’d heard the word Chicago, maybe Chicago Tribune, and it roused him. He began changing to his pajamas as he listened. The newscaster was summarizing a major story out of the United States.
At 9:45, Tim LaHaye sat straight up in his bed. He had been sound asleep, dreaming of the roaring fans that awaited at the launch event of his new book, Left Behind: Tribulation Force. What had awoken him was a thought, a realization that cut through Morpheus’s spell. If he moved both of his point of view characters to the Middle East, there would be nobody in America to witness important plot points. His heart raced. Tim looked at his watch. A shadow of relief fell over his face. That’s right; he hadn’t finished writing the book yet. But relief changed to inspiration like the snap of a light switch. He knew. With the dexterity of a man one-tenth his age—yes, a seven-year-old boy!—he flung himself from his mattress, down the hall, arms windmilling, and at last he trampled into his office. He gripped the chair at his desk with both hands, hurled it aside. Why did he need a chair when he had genius? The typewriter keys seemed to tremble in the light of a flickering bulb. This was it: the solution. His fingers sprang to action. A clack-cla-clatter filled the house like a tap-dancing regiments parading through the narrow hallways. Before Tim knew it, the final TING! of the typewriter sounded, and his hands could rest. His eyes watered. Dare he gaze upon such a masterpiece at this distance? A scene. A scene that solved all his problems. The muse had spoken, and he had heard, and the world would never be the same. How was Rayford to know what he must, even across the sand and the ocean, half a world away? A news report. All Tim’s worries faded with the plugging of that plot hole. And he was happy.
Emily liked this
