Rock needed a single, specific word to restart his rewrite of A Different Closet, the incomplete product of his first significant attempt to write a novel.
He tried to estimate how many days it had been since he last made progress. It might have been before Christmas, but regardless of how long it had been, Rock was stymied and frustrated and thought for a moment that he had essentially given up over the need for one word.
Perhaps he should call Erin. She was a bit of a wordsmith and occasionally did well at this sort of thing; or maybe Kayce Hall from the Hash House Harriers. She seemed interested the last time Rock spoke to her about it.
And then there was the matter of driving to Nashville to visit his mother. Yes, of course. That's why he was up. Rock at last realized it was 8 a.m., not 8 p.m., and walked through his filthy kitchen for a drink of milk.
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