He began leafing through the manuscript wildly. "Bill, this is from N."
Bill gave a fake laugh.
"No, I'm not-," Theo insisted, "this is an honest-to-god manuscript written by N."
Without looking up, Bill said, "Oh, yeah, 'cause it's not good enough that the best writer of our generation who went recluse and hasn't been seen for twenty years sends us a submissions. He has to actually write it out by hand and send us the original."
Theo grinned and held up the stack of paper, N's distinct autograph dominating the bottom half of the front page. "Also, he signed it."
Bill was halfway across the room in the blink of an eye. "That's genuine, isn't it?" he demanded, ripping the story from Theo's hands and tearing through it. "This is his handwriting, too."
"This could be big," Theo said, leaning forward in his chair, his forehead on his palm.
Bill laughed in disbelief. "Are you joking? This is huge. This is what Fiction has been waiting for. We publish this story and we make a million dollars in one issue, easy. Not to mention the ten thousand extra subscriptions." - he was getting giddy - "I'm calling our publisher."
Dropping the package, Bill practically skipped to the next room.
Theo picked it up and began reading. He heard Bill's voice from the other room. "Pam? Yeah, hey. Listen, how much would it cost to print a few extra copies of the magazine this month?"
"Bill," Theo called out, still reading the story. He was picking at his lip.
Bill said, "yeah?"