Vanessa got right down to work. She had to sit on the bed, as the desk wasn't really suitable for the task. As she handed sheet after sheet to Sullivan, he took them with a blank, almost stunned expression and tried to make some tentative organizational scheme. It was obvious that no one had ever taken an interest in his poetry before--maybe he'd never shown it to anyone before.

At one point she held up a page, read it, frowned in disapproval, and put it in the "rejected" pile.

He pounced. "Hey, what's wrong with one?"

"Look, Sullivan, a lot of your poems are pretty tough and grim and even...