Dear Valerie,

I just received your email indicating that you are unable to “move forward” with my piece, “An Activist Prepares: The Theatrics of Social Justice in Contemporary America” which you had previously accepted for publication. I am baffled. As of May, when I first pitched the piece to you, you expressed great interest in publishing it and “couldn’t wait” to hear what I came up with as you thought “the piece is a good fit for us.” (Followed by five exclamation points.)

“Hello? Hello?”

(pause)

“Hi. This is Suzy.”

“Um, yes?”

“You’re receiving this call because you’ve been recommended by a friend who hates your guts!”

“I beg your pardon?”

Come on in. Ashley, isn’t it? No? Emily? Alexis? All you sorority girls look the same. I think you’re in one of my Tuesday classes. Hannah? That’s right. You usually sit in the back of the classroom, left side, and last week I distinctly remember seeing you order a striped bikini from Forever 21 during my lecture on affirmative action. Such forethought—and it’s only November.

It was a dull day, I wasn’t doing very much. In theory I was working from home, but that theory wasn’t working and neither was I. I tried looking out of the window but the sky was a smudged grey, like yesterday’s make-up, and it didn’t compel me out of doors or into better thoughts. I looked again at my work, but it could all wait a few more minutes. I didn’t know what to write. I was waiting for inspiration, and starting to feel stood up. The phone was silent. The clock ticked. A man came through the door with a gun in his hand.

They shot the Messenger, Tabitha said, and he wasn’t expected to survive.

“What was he even doing there?” Brad asked. “Breaking up a robbery, a drug deal? That doesn’t sound like him. Last I heard, he was stranded at the Cosmic Gates, lost in the Mists of Time, thinking deep thoughts about truth and justice or something like that.”

“Turns out he was in Poughkeepsie.”

It turned out, much to the shock of the gathered League, that the Messenger had been a fraud.