Howard Moon thought of himself as something of an accomplished writer.

He was writing right now, in fact. Sure, he had only written one sentence, but that still counted, obviously.

And Howard had always believed that good writers take their time. In his case, at least.

He was sitting comfortably at the table in the small shack he shared with Vince.

Until he heard something.

“Howard.” Vince says.

Howard tried to ignore it, aiming to think of the next sentence he was going to write.