24 Inches (Size Matters 2)

There's a weight pressing down all around me.

I try to speak, but my words are thick and slow to form. They stick in my mouth, unwilling to come out. My throat tightens with the effort.

There's a horizon, but I can't see beyond that, and the landscape is barren. Martian and unfamiliar.

I hear a car horn in the distance, but I don't see a car.

I pivot my head in slow motion, and still hear the sound. I'm looking for the object. It's getting closer, and closer, and …

My eyes snap open.

The dream dissolves, but I still hear the repetitive sound of a horn. Is that real, or remnants of my dream?

Then I realize it's not a car horn at all, it's my phone, and it's buzzing by my bed, on the nightstand. It's teetering on the edge, nearly ready to fall on the floor.

I reach for it, and answer. "Hello?"

"Did I wake you?"

It's April, my agent. She sounds flustered and upset, and I'd say if she's calling me this early, it must be important.

"It's fine. I need to get up anyways," I say. "But you're awake early."

"You sound funny," she says, as if she hardly believes I'm awake at all. And that's partly true. My mind is still foggy with sleep.

"Well, you just so happened to have snapped me out of a weird ass dream," I say.

"You'll have to tell me about that dream some other time. Have you been on Facebook this morning?" she asks, and then backpedals. "Never mind. I take that back. You just woke up. Stupid question. But you need to go to Facebook. Right now."

"I'll check it out in a little bit," I say with a yawn. "I think I need coffee and a shower first before I jump on social media. One thing at a time."

"No, it's important," she says. "Turn it on now. This can't wait. I mean it!"

"Slow down. You sound as if someone's dying. What's the urgency?" I ask.

Outside, I hear New York City coming to life. Sirens are blaring in the distance, and the sun is slicing through my curtains. Why is it that the sun always shines in just the right way that it lands in my eyes? I swear. It always happens.

"It's Grady," April says, bringing my mind back to the present.

"What? You mean, Grady of Bad Boy Publishing? That Grady?"

"Yes, that Grady. And he's hosting a live Facebook feed. You have to watch it."

"I don't give a fuck about Grady," I say. "Why would I want to watch his live feed? I can think of a million other ways I'd rather spend my time. Watching one minute of Grady talking is the equivalent of taking 10 years off of my life."

"What is this, a game of 20 questions?" April asks. "C'mon, just trust me on this."

"Okay, give me a sec," I say, running my fingers through my hair and swinging my feet off the bed.

I reach for my iPad and tap the Facebook app.

It loads. My personal stream flashes on the screen—people posting various pictures of pets and babies, and beach vacations, and plates of food, and cocktails, and selfies … and well, you get the picture. The usual.

Typical stuff.

And then I see what I'm looking for.

Sure enough, Grady's hosting a live feed, and his entire network is tuning in. I join, just so I can see what's fueling April's near hysteria.