The table is piled high with books, newspapers, mail, and a half-eaten sandwich from days gone by. From beneath the rubble something stirs, causing an unopened phone bill to float to the floor. A tiny hand appears, no bigger than a postage stamp. Then another, as Celeste, disheveled and dazed, slowly crawls from beneath the rubble, pulling a Post-It from her tangled hair. She rises to her feet, steadies herself against a cup and looks around in disgust. How long had she been under there this time?
“Writers!” she grumbled. “I’m a muse, not a magician.”