It was unlikely that anybody would. Somehow Toby and Owen's forest had escaped the notice of the evil logging industry all this time (Toby liked to think that the loggers would love love to ravage the land, but were frightened away by whispered tales of a deadly monster that lurked within) and he'd never seen a single human being out here during his walks, so he figured the risk of Owen being discovered was extremely low. to ravage the land, but were frightened away by whispered tales of a deadly monster that lurked within) and he'd never seen a single human being out here during his walks, so he figured the risk of Owen being discovered was extremely low.

All of the exercise was keeping him in good shape, but he was getting to the age where sometimes he was a little sore after getting back home from his visits. In another decade, he'd be thankful he'd built the shack.

He was a little concerned about bringing Owen closer to the populace...but, what danger was he really creating? If Owen wanted to leave the forest, he would, whether he was four miles away or one. As far as Toby knew, he'd never left the woods again after the...incidents, and was unlikely to leave it ever again.

"Dear Mr. Floren, though we reviewed your materials with great interest, we regret to inform you..."

As Toby chopped up the logs, Owen dragged them out of the way. Owen was strong and pretty good at basic manual labor but he wasn't much of a tool user, or else Toby would have made him chop up the logs himself. Putting a sharp bladed weapon into his claws seemed like a potential descent into unnecessary amputation.

"Now, don't expect indoor plumbing or electricity or anything like that," Toby said. "We probably won't have windows either-I don't think you want any hikers peeking into your living room. Basically just think of it as a wooden cave that's closer to my house."

Like cave.

"I like the cave, too, but this is seriously overdue. Anyway, you'll have a door, just like civilized people."

This envelope was thick. Too thick to be only his samples back.

How thick was a syndication contract? With all of the complicated merchandising rights and stuff, he could easily see a contract being ridiculously thick.

Don't get too excited, he warned himself. This could be a hundred pages of detailed description of how much they hated my submission, followed by a demand for me to never submit This could be a hundred pages of detailed description of how much they hated my submission, followed by a demand for me to never submit them another piece of work for as long as I live, followed by a restraining order, just in case. them another piece of work for as long as I live, followed by a restraining order, just in case.

It wasn't.

It was, however, just a form rejection, along with a free catalog from their parent company.

"You like it?"

No.

"Remember, it's just the frame. It's not the completed shack."

Love it.

"That was incredible," she said, as Toby rolled off her. "I just can't even describe it. You made me feel like a woman again."

"Thanks."

"I'm in a state of shock at how good that was. We need to do this again. You'll call me, right?"

"Do I get a discount next time?"

"If you become a regular, we'll see."

She fixed up her makeup as Toby got dressed. It was hard to be flattered by her confessions of bliss when he knew that he'd been laughably bad in bed, and when he knew she'd overcharged him but he'd been too embarrassed to negotiate.

And he knew the feeling of self-loathing would kick in as soon as he left the hotel room. But he also knew that it would fade by morning.

Three bills. Four pieces of junk mail. No self-addressed stamped envelopes.

Damn.

"Owen, hold it! Hold it, Owen! Owen, I'm losing it! Owen-!"

The entire north wall crashed to the ground.

"You suck, Owen."

At least he could incorporate this into a comic strip.

"I'd like to start writing articles," Toby said.

"That's a great idea. I was thinking the same thing." Mr. Lynch searched around his desk for a few moments, found a manila folder, and handed it to him. "Write up these obituaries and have them to me by three."

Toby and Owen stood in the clearing, looking at what they'd accomplished.

The shack looked...well, it looked like crap. But it was sturdy, moderately furnished (including a mattress that Toby had dragged all the way out here, nearly throwing out his back), and-most importantly-a lot closer to Toby's house.

"Welcome to your new home. Try not to bring too many bones in here."

"Dear Sir or Madam, thank you for your recent submission. Unfortunately, we no longer review unagented queries..."

1981.

"I'm not deluding myself, right? This is good stuff, isn't it? I'm not saying it's brilliant, but it's better than a lot of the strips out there. You'd think somebody would read it and laugh. You're not just humoring me, are you? I mean, I know you're not the best person to judge punch lines, but you like the artwork, right?"

Pretty.

"Thanks, but it's not supposed to be pretty. It's supposed to be wacky and funny. I just don't want to spend this much time on it if it's not something that people are going to enjoy."

In the dream, Owen slashed at the old man with his claws, slicing a red crisscross pattern across his entire body. The pieces of flesh tumbled to the ground as his grandchildren screamed. Then Toby was sitting in the front row of the funeral he hadn't attended outside of his dreams.

"Whose fault is it when a wild animal goes berserk like that?" asked a woman seated directly behind him. Her voice had an almost musical lilt.

"Why, it's Toby Floren's fault, of course!" the man next to her replied.

"I agree. It's every bit as much his fault as if he'd stabbed a knife into that poor old man and that poor young woman."

"He should be severely punished," the man said.

"You don't understand...it's not my fault," Toby protested. "We're friends. I don't own him. Whatever he does, no matter how bad it is, is out of my..."

He realized that he was no longer dreaming and was in his bedroom, talking out loud. He wished that he could just wake up screaming, like a normal person did-at least in the movies.

Dear Toby,Thank you for your submission of Rusty & Pugg, Rusty & Pugg, and our apologies for the delay in our response. Your talent as an artist is very evident from these sample strips. Unfortunately, though we enjoyed the art very much, we felt that the humor was weak and often confusing, and that neither Rusty nor Pugg had a strong enough personality to make the strip a success. and our apologies for the delay in our response. Your talent as an artist is very evident from these sample strips. Unfortunately, though we enjoyed the art very much, we felt that the humor was weak and often confusing, and that neither Rusty nor Pugg had a strong enough personality to make the strip a success.We wish the very best of luck in your future endeavors.

"I got my first personalized rejection!" Toby shouted.

Two self-addressed stamped envelopes were in Toby's mailbox the same day. A thick one and a thin one. The last two. Wouldn't it be hilarious if he'd been waiting all of this time, and got two acceptances the same day?

He tore open the first envelope, the thick one, and pulled out the cover letter: "Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately-" This one didn't even have a salutation.

Okay. Down to one.

He opened the envelope, took a deep breath, and then wondered if he should take the letter to Owen's shack so they could read it together. If this were good news-and Toby couldn't help but feel that it was-they should share the joy. How awesome would it be to get the very last response, walk it all the way to the shack, and have it be an acceptance? They'd scream so loud that the walls of the shack would blow apart.

The envelope was only thick enough to contain a letter. They hadn't returned his samples.

He should definitely walk it over to Owen.

Screw it. He couldn't wait that long. He pulled the letter out of the envelope and unfolded it.

"Dear Sir, thank you for your submission. However, we regret to inform you that your material, while interesting, doesn't meet our present needs. We wish you-"

Damn.

He wasn't going to give up, but this was disheartening in a big way. He supposed that most cartoonists went through this process for several years before getting the big "Yes," but he was off to a late start. Christ, he was almost forty.

He looked at the letter again, as if the message might have changed.

"-doesn't meet our present needs. We wish you the best of luck with Mom & Runts, Mom & Runts, and if you create other projects in the future, please feel free to send them. and if you create other projects in the future, please feel free to send them."

They'd put the wrong letter in his envelope.

Holy shit.

He quickly hurried into the kitchen and picked up the telephone. He dialed the number on the letterhead and chewed on his fingernails-a habit he just now acquired-while he waited for the receptionist to put him through to the secretary who could answer his question.

The secretary's intern answered, and apologetically explained that the secretary had left early today and that he wasn't sure how to research the issue, but that she'd be back tomorrow-no, wait, she'd be back the day after after tomorrow, and if Toby called then, she'd happily answer his question. tomorrow, and if Toby called then, she'd happily answer his question.

Toby led Owen a few miles into the forest, and his friend joined him in several minutes of the loudest frustrated bellowing that Toby had ever engaged in.

He felt better when they were done.

The secretary apologized-she had indeed put the wrong letter in Toby's envelope, and his letter had gone to the creator of Mom & Runts. Mom & Runts.

Toby's letter was also a rejection, but without the offer to review future projects.