“I started following him because he commented on my story, and then I read his, and they were really good!” I’m driving down the street, smiling about discovering Ficly.com while describing it to a friend not “in the know.”

The curve of her mouth and the tightening of her features tell me that the silence in the car is an uncomfortable one. “Do you mean, like, on twitter?”

“Oh!” I laugh. “Yeah, kind of. It’s got it’s own kinda-twitter service. It shows you when your favorite authors post stories.” I look at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s texting. I sigh, and we ride on in silence until I pull up to her street. Rarely on our weekly drives does she engage in actual conversation with me.

She mutters a half-hearted “Thanks” after I walk her to her door. Too young to know her neighborhood, she doesn’t notice the high bushes that might conceal attackers.

“Psst!”

The bushes shake and the branches part. I freeze, breathless with terror.

“Psst! I really like your stories!”