Dreadlilocks stared back at Jack, incredulous. “You mean ‘write’ like…writing whole worlds? The way you do? The way Mère L’Oye does…?”

“That’s what I mean,” Jack replied. “I think that might just be the elusive solution we’ve been waiting for; one I never would have thought of…a new author.”

“Even the Odsplut can’t take on two of us at once. At least, not as efficiently,” he went on. “If I were to provoke it to unwrite me, there’d be a small window of time before it actually happens that you could exploit…if you could write.”

“What do you mean…?”

“It’s a technique…I call it ‘timescaling’. You break down the seconds that pass while something is happening and write them out individually. In the story, everything stays at normal speed, but as the author you have a slowed perspective of the events, which gives you more “time” to do things. Even…unrelated things.”

“I’m…not sure I understand…”

“Meh, don’t worry about it…well, actually, do worry about it; the plan won’t work unless you get it right…but before you worry about that: you have to decide if you really want this.”

“Once you learn to write…you can’t ever go back,” he explained. “Your life as a character; the family you’ve been missing throughout this whole story…even if we survive, that’s all gonna be over. You could go back to them, but things would never be the same. That kind of power…pervades everything you touch.”

“Besides that, it…changes you, as a person.” He folded his hands. “Gin wasn’t always so moody, you know. When I first met her, before I taught her to write…she was a lot like you. Hopeful and all that. I was too, once…even Mother might’ve been. But things like ‘hope’ start to lose their value when you’re in a position like this. It’s…hard to explain. But you’ll know it when you feel it.”

Dreadli blinked, still so awestruck by the opportunity that had been laid before her that all her other emotions seemed dulled. “So…it’s…tough to be a god,” she said quietly.

“Basically. It’s even tougher when you’re not the only one…who knows; in ten thousand years or so, you might be talking like this with one of your characters; plotting to overthrow me…”

“N-no! I couldn’t…!” Dreadli protested. “Besides…I don’t think you would need to be overthrown, not like this. Because you’re not like your mother. You can…see a world without you in it.”

“…Because I’m a sad-sack, right?” Jack smiled slightly. “Still…you never do know. I think facing death is a lot like learning to write, but in an opposite way…once you get to that point in your life where your own impermanence is…tangible, and unavoidable, you can’t go back. And that changes you, too.”

After that, the two were silent for a while.

Dreadlilocks shuffled her feet, listening to the pleasant tap-tapping sound they made on the tile floor. The Caramel Odsplut returned to her, and she cradled it in her hands.

Finally, she spoke. “…So…if I become an author,” she said, “Then I can’t be with my friends or family anymore because…they’ll all be characters to me. I’ll be responsible for them…like the way you felt responsible for Gin and Kyloe, even though you didn’t write them.”

“Pretty much,” Jack replied.

“Do I…have to write my own characters, too…?”

“Well, no; you don’t have to. But once you gain the ability, it might happen involuntarily, especially in the beginning.”

“And then I’ll have to take care of them…”

“Or you could just unwrite them.”

“What?? No…!”

“Sometimes you have to, you know. It’s not as if they’ll mind if they don’t know it’s coming.” Jack stood up again, stretching his arms. “…Have you ever thought about things like…if you died every time you went to sleep and were recreated as an exact replica of your old self every time you woke up, you’d have no way of knowing…?”

Dreadlilocks squinted at him. “…No??” she answered.

“Well, you should probably start. That is…if you really want to do this.” He looked down at her. “It’s your choice,” he said softly.

Dreadlilocks met his gaze, trying as well as she could to look strong and self-assured. “…Okay,” she said. “Teach me to write.”