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Five Years Later…
“Ryen!” I hear my name being called. “Ryen, come on!”
I shake my head, amused as I step up onto the curb in front my
apartment building. Delcour’s doorman is already poised with the door
open for me to make my escape.
“No, Bill,” I say to the reporter from the Times as he and a few
photographers rush up to me, cutting into my space.
I try to veer around them, but they’re everywhere. I push through them.
“An Oscar nomination for Best Original Song?” Bill Winthrop holds up
a recorder in front of me. “You have to be pleased. He has to have
something to say! Come on.”
“He’s in the writing cave,” I say, making my way to the door. “I told
you that before.”
I turn around, giving him and the other guys who’ve been camped out
here forever a bored look. “Really, you’ve been out here for months. Take