Being an author was a shitty thing, during book signings. Well, once you hit it big. When he'd first started writing, a book signing would be mostly shooting the shit with whoever would listen, maybe some talking, and a few signings. Now, however, the book signings were longer. They always started with an exert from his latest book, which he'd finished over an hour ago. Maybe a Q&A session, and then signing, pictures, and more fucking signing. So much signing his hands ached.

Like any good publisher, by even midway through, his hand was planted on an icepack that was constantly replaced, and he signed as many as he could. He asked questions when he could. 'Who to make it out to? Oh, I'm glad you enjoyed the book. Well, I don't think that the tragedies that some imports caused should force us to punish the whole any more than we should punish a demographic for the hatecrimes that some of them perpetuate.'

Normal things, like that. He didn't even notice the gentleman who'd entered near the tail end, nor would he notice him until his head tips up, brown eyes and face entirely friendly, by impassive. If there was any recognition, he didn't show it.

He'd gotten very good at lying, if he hadn't been good before.

"Who do I make this out to?"