The first thing I felt was something pushing uncomfortably against my back. I was lying down, my head propped up on sharp corners, and the feeling of rubber pressed against my cheek. The place smelled dusty and unused, unlike my apartment’s week-old moldy pizza funk or the antiseptic feeling of a hospital. A hum came from above.

I slowly opened up my eyes. I was in an old basement. A single incandescent light bulb hung from a twisted electrical cable coming down from a hole in the wooden ceiling. It hummed uncaringly at me, casting a pale yellow light on wooden walls with peeling faded white paint. Stacks of what appeared to be manuscripts were tossed haphazardly along the walls. In one corner was a large plastic trash can labeled “Stupid Rejections.” An old mechanical typewriter sat by the trash can, with a few progressively newer electrical models next to it, as if someone started planning a museum exhibit and forgot. All the keyboards showed heavy signs of use.

A number of shelves held notebooks that seemed to have been used, though I could only see the cover of the one on the end. It said “Character Drafts” in nice careful lettering. A board with yellowing index cards stuck to it in rows had things like “Act I” and “Nemesis foils hero - How?” written on them. Some of the cards had fallen on the floor.

I carefully sat up. I was lying on a foldable field cot. My back had been pressed against the middle pole, and the thin canvas that served as a mattress provided no cushioning. My head had been propped up on my trophy. I’d won multiple awards over the years for ads and marketing campaigns. Of all those trophies, the one I threw a tantrum with was the Mad Sad Bad Ad trophy, A trophy given for a failed campaign. The trophy was shaped like three people fused together back to back. No wonder I was uncomfortable. For a gag trophy, it was made of remarkably sturdy materials to had not broken under my weight.

My cheek had been cushioned against Squeezimodo. It wasn’t the best pillow, but at least it was soft.

Where the hell was I? Didn’t a car crash into me? No, the car didn’t. The trophy did. I upgraded it from remarkably sturdy to ludicrously sturdy. I checked myself over, but I seemed ok. Was I a prisoner? I wasn’t tied up, but I wasn’t anywhere I recognized.

A set of wooden stairs led up to a door. I was in someone’s basement. Taking my MSBA Trophy in one hand and Squeezimodo in the other, I made my way up.

The stairs didn’t creak, which was encouraging. I wasn’t getting a horror vibe. I heard tapping noises as I approached the door, but they stopped. The door was plain wood. Both my hands were full, and I considered how to deal with this when a baritone voice from the other side said, “Well, come in already.”

I put Squeezimodo in my pocket and opened the door. It swung into a small office.

Behind a desk sat a paunchy middle-aged man. His dark hair was just starting to gray, and his skin was light brown. He exuded youthful energy, his brown eyes alive when he gazed at me. He pointed at a chair in front of the desk and said, “Sit down.”

I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me. The door had a “Discard Pile” sign on it.

The man was seated behind a desk with a computer on it, topped with a large monitor. The desk also held a notebook like those I saw below, opened to a page with some scrawls on it. Other pieces of paper littered the desk, as well as some pens and a few empty coffee cups. A green picture frame was on one side of the screen, facing away from me.

The walls were a cheery yellow, but no pictures or posters adorned them, and no windows opened to the outside world. A couple of wall lamps illuminated the whole room, making it feel welcoming, if a bit sparse.

I couldn’t see any other way out of the room. This was a really strange setup. I wondered if the basement I just came from was actually the ground floor.

“Where am I? Who are you?”

“You really should sit down. I don’t want you dying again.”

“Again?” I took the chair in front of his desk. He didn’t seem to be threatening me. Still, I foresaw stress in my near future, so I took Squeezimodo out. “You have a very odd sense of humor. You realize that no one will pay any ransom for me, right?”

“You died. I called you back because I wanted to try something new. Look behind you if you don’t believe me.”

Holding on to Squeezimodo and the MSBA Trophy, I turned my head back. The door was gone. I saw a blank cheery yellow wall.

Squeeze!

I was suddenly very happy to be sitting down. I was probably in the hospital, hopped up on drugs. I turned back to the man who was looking at me from around the screen and said, “People don’t come back from the dead. I’m just hallucinating you.”

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“You didn’t come back from the dead. You died. We need to get to the next part of this conversation.”

My eyes went from him to the trophy in my hand. This was a dream, and I was going to take control of it. “Fuck off,” I said as I pulled my hand back, aiming at him, and threw the trophy. This was becoming my go-to move.

He didn’t even flinch. His finger on the keyboard hit a key. The trophy was gone before it even left my hand.

I stared at him, dumbfounded, then at my hand. This lacked the illusive quality I associated with dreams. Despite the fantastic, it felt very realistic.

“You’ll be next,” he said without any malice. “If we can’t have a civilized conversation, you’re going back on the discard pile.”

Squeeze! “Who… What are you?”

“I’m The Author.”

“THE Author?”

“Ok, I’m an Author, but as far as you’re concerned, I’m The Author.”

Squeeze! “What does that mean?”

“Simple, I’m starting a new novel and needed a premise. You gave me an idea.”

“What does any of this mean? Can I see my family? Can I call them?” Squeeze squeeze.

“I realize this is somewhat abrupt. You died. Your old life is over. You can’t call, you can’t write. You’re not even in the same world anymore. You are, however, alive again and can start something new and make a go of it.”

“Dying isn’t something you just get over.”

“You’ll have time to digest this. For now, just humor me. Treat this like a job interview. Clearly, I have some power here,” he said, pointing toward the wall where there was no longer a door.

I took a moment to settle my nerves. I was scared of what he could do with a tap of his finger. There was something strange going on here. I’d know if he were lying the minute I got out of here.

“So,” I said, “what are you suggesting? And why talk to me at all?”

“Before you died, you were screaming, ‘I should have said…’ You clearly have regrets. Do you believe, if you start your career now, with all the knowledge you’ve accumulated over the past twenty years, that you’d be able to do a better job?”

There was no one around. How did he know? Still, I thought about it. This was a pretty deep question. I’d made mistakes over the years, but just starting as myself wouldn’t work.

“My current job is…was almost entry-level. I’m older, and it makes people assume I’m not going to succeed. I’ll need to be younger and at a new place for this to work.”

“Of course. That’s the whole point. Start as if you have no experience but benefit from the years you’ve done the job and the lessons you’ve learned. A different job, I think, not the same one you’ve done.”

“Yes, that would be amazing if only we had time travel or youthful magic pills to make us younger,” I rolled my eyes at him.

He just smiled, then continued. “You haven’t quite mastered your temper.”

“What tipped you off? I’ve learned to cope, and Squeezimodo”—I showed him my trusty stress ball—“has helped me through some hard times.”

He nodded. He grabbed his notebook and started scribbling, muttering to himself. “Change the parameters, add aggression, outlets, sidekick, magic system, game design, yes, yes.” Looking up at me again, he said, “Oh, you’re still here. First, you’ll have to find a job. Ready?”

“I still want to talk to my family!”

“You can’t. Dead is dead, and in that world, you are.”

My family were the only people who’d miss me. I didn’t have any close friends other than my online gaming buddies, and I just lost my job. I wondered how much of what he was spouting was true. He did have knowledge no one should have and a lot of powers, at least in this place. I should treat this as real for now.

“Wait,” I said, “I want to be able to give you my feedback on what you write.”

“Absolutely not! I’m The Author.” He said it more Auteur with a put-on accent.

Looking pointedly around the room at the empty walls, then at the mostly empty desk, I said, “The UNpublished author. This is my life you’re talking about.”

He deflated a bit. “Fine, fine.” He ripped a blank page out of the notebook and wrote something on it using a red pen. Then, he drew three connected squares right underneath the sentence. “Here,“ he said, handing me the page. “This will give you three chances to change something you’ve said. Hold your finger on an empty square and say aloud, ‘I should have said this instead of that.’ If I accept the feedback, an X will show up in the square. Remember that you can only use it three times. You aren’t my editor, that red-pen-toting English major who thinks my manuscripts are Morse code coloring books.”

Putting Squeezimodo back in my pocket, I took the paper and examined it. Above the three boxes was the sentence “WHAT I SHOULD HAVE SAID WAS.”

“I want more control than that. What if I don’t like how the story is going?”

“Here’s an example of control.” He typed for a few seconds on his keyboard. “Choose a door.” He pointed behind me again.

I turned around and saw two doors. The first was the one I came through, made of unvarnished wood, with that “Discard Pile” sign hanging on it. The second door was shiny and golden, with a sign “In the Beginning” in white lettering on it.

“You have a high opinion of yourself,” I said.

“Just go before I make you a mute who can’t give any notes.”

Time to leave before the doors disappeared again. I went through the new “In the Beginning” door. I heard some typing behind me, and the world went dark again.