wednesday stomps over to her desk upon seeing thing perched by a page, a scowl present on her face. although, that’s nothing alarming.

“have you been using my typewriter without my permission?”

a quick shake of his wrist pushes wednesday into reading the paper. from what you can see, and judging by how she yanks her drawer open…

“my novel is gone.”

she mutters the second line of writing to herself, tension rising in the air despite her ever monosyllabic tone.

“my stalker is going to burn my manuscript at the founder’s pyre…!”

“that’s not your only copy, right?” you, desperately, insist.

without a good answer, wednesday’s eyes dart away from you, like a wife scared of her much angrier wife.