No Dragons Press: A HIGH FANTASY Adventure

Chapter One: Addie Gets a Job

"Everyone's trying to be Philip K. Dick."

This is how Tristan greets me that first day, though of course he isn't Tristan to me yet, and it isn't much of a greeting. Here in the doorway of No Dragons Press, he's just a lanky young man with large, shadowed eyes under dust-colored glasses, a morose expression on his pale face. In the hand that isn't propping the door open, he's clutching a stapled packet of pages so tightly a starburst of wrinkles shoots from his thumb to the edges. "Why is everyone trying to be Philip K. Dick?"

I blink, thrown off my prepared introduction. I am not ruffled, exactly—I don't do ruffled—but I do get the feeling that the opportunity for "I'm Addie MacAlister and I'm here to apply for the graphic design position" has somehow come and gone.

I wonder, briefly, if I'm high enough for this.

"I thought you wanted everyone to be like Philip K. Dick," calls a dry voice from somewhere unseen, saving me from having to respond just yet.

The guy at the door gives a deep eye roll, like he's looking inside his own head for the source of the voice. "I want everyone to be him, not to try to be. There's a difference." He resumes frowning at the document.

That's it. I must have the address wrong. I've somehow wandered into the wrong building, and this is an improv class or script rehearsal or some sort of role-playing kind of therapy that has escaped my radar until now—whatever it is, there's no way I'm in the right place.

Just in case I'm right, I sneak another look at the door under Tristan's hand. But there it is—NO DRAGONS PRESS—in bold letters on the frosted glass panel. This is definitely the place . . . but who the hell is Philip K. Dick? Is this some sort of test?

Then, I feel a flicker of a memory from a hazy Netflix session with Bradley. Harrison Ford, some creepy android stuff . . .

"The Blade Runner guy?"

But if this is a test, I appear to be failing. The man sends me a wounded look, the sunkenness of his eyes even more pronounced. He is so pale he's a caricature of paleness, a skeletal ghost, and he focuses on me with an impressive glower. "The guy who wrote the short story Blade Runner was based on, yes." Underneath his gloom is now smug indignation.

He returns his eyes to his fist, and since nothing better comes to mind, I watch him mutter at the crumpled pages. He looks a bit younger than me, mid-twenties or so. He's wearing a faded T-shirt from someone's distant past; over this an open work shirt, also faded, hangs from his shoulders with a look of permanence, sleeves crammed up above his elbows in a haphazard way that tells me cuffing them has never crossed his mind as an option. Topping all of this is a dark mop of hair that, while not greasy per se, could probably stand a wash. I'm guessing grad student—he has that look of professional scholarship—but the stains spotting his work pants look more industrial than gastronomical.

I frown down at my own "interview clothes," already constraining me in ways no human was ever meant to be constrained. Should have gone with the sweatshirt and jeans after all.

When I look up, the heavy door is swinging directly toward my face.

My reflexes kick in, and I'm mildly surprised by my hand meeting the door—just in time to keep this interview from becoming a bloodbath.

Exactly two inches from my face, neat but plain fingers contrast layers of broken paint, each scuff and chip along the door's edge hinting at an endless history. and as I consider things from this new vantage point, where my nose is an inch away from being shattered, a thought occurs.

I could leave, right now. Leave and head back to my bar, never mention to Bradley that I ever had this ridiculous urge to stretch out and see what I could reach. But whether or not I tell anyone I bailed, I will know the truth: that I failed before I even began at the one thing I'd decided to actually try.