Page 19 of With a Little Luck

The house is quiet for a weekday afternoon. Well … quiet-ish. Pru left as soon as we got home from school, off for her volunteer gig at the animal rescue center. Lucy is at soccer practice. Mom and Dad took Ellie with them to the record store. That just leaves me and Penny, and Penny is upstairs practicing her violin.

Hence, quiet-ish.

I don’t mind her practicing, though. She’s improved a lot this last year, and after a while, the repetition of her recital songs becomes somewhat soothing background noise.48

I’m at the kitchen table, munching through a second bowl of Lucky Charms and reading through my notes for the upcoming campaign, trying to figure out if I need to change anything now that we’ve lost Matt. I don’t reallywantto change anything. I’ve put a lot of work into this campaign, and I’m tempted to just continue on with how I’ve designed it and make adjustments while we play, if necessary. That’s the hallmark of a good Dungeon Master, isn’t it? That we can be flexible and adapt the story as we go?

It also crosses my mind to try to find a new player, but I don’t know who I would ask. None of my sisters are interested. Well, Ellie would probably love to, but I don’t think bringing a kindergartner into the mix would fly with the others. I consider Ari. We’ve never had anyone play a bard in the group before, but she usually works at the store on Saturdays.

I look down at the blank page in front of me, tapping my pencil against my thumb. I think of the upcoming campaign. Lost ruins and hordes of goblins and a powerful curse …

The lead of my pencil brushes against the paper, and I start to draw.

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55The chiming notification of a text message startles me from my focus. I peel my attention away from the page. My fingers are smudged with pencil lead. There’s a crick in my neck from being bent over the table for so long. I blink around in a daze, wondering when the sound of Penny’s violin fell silent. I have a vague memory of Lucy getting home and dropping her cleats in the entryway before dashing upstairs, but I was oblivious to the bright daylight dimming into purple dusk. My stomach growls—the two bowls of cereal more than used up in my rush of inspiration.

It’s after our usual dinnertime. I pick up my phone and see that the text was from my mom, saying that they’re going to be working late at the store, unpacking a bunch of new merch that came in, and asking if I can get dinner for myself, Lucy, and Penny. She’s included a photo of Ellie, fast asleep on the old couch we keep in the back room, her favorite pony toys piled on her chest.

I respond with a thumbs-up emoji, and Mom sends a hug emoji back.

I roll my shoulder a few times, then get up and flip through the cabinets, finding a package of spaghetti and jarred tomato sauce.

I let Lucy and Penny know that dinner will be ready in ten minutes, and check my inbox while the pasta cooks.

One new email.

Subject: Art Submission for the Dungeon

I just about drop the phone into the pot of boiling water. I don’t, thank Cthulhu, but also—it might be better if I did. It would probably be best to never open this email. To never read the rejection that’s coming. It’s like that Schrödinger’s Cat experiment. Until you open the box, the cat is both alive and dead.

Until I open this email, my hopes are both alive and dead.

I know. I never really got the logic of that experiment, either. I’m just stalling.56

Give me a moment.

One more.

Okay.

I’m ready.

I take in a stabilizing breath and open the email.

Dear Jude Barnett, thank you for your submission. We like your artistic style and find the point of view refreshing. We are pleased to accept this for our July edition of theDungeon—

It goes on, but I stop reading. I stare at those words until they blur together.

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