October 29, 2020.

Jon Phillips approaches you, hat in hand. He looks haggard, terrible, which is not very different from how he normally looks but you can still tell something is wrong.

"Look, he says. I'm just going to say this now and get it over with. Fait Accompli needs at least another six or seven chapters, and I'm not going to be able to finish it by the end of the month. It will be finished, and all posted on Facebook, but it's going to have to be serialized over the course of the first half of November. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

You haven't been reading any of the chapters posted so far, so you don't really care, and it makes you feel uncomfortable that he's apologizing. "I don't care," you say. "It's okay, buddy."

"I'm such a fuckup," he says, and starts crying. "I'm a failure."

"Please don't cry, there there," you say, and wish you were anywhere else.

"I hurt everyone," he gets out in between sobs. You pretend to have an urgent Zoom call that you have to go take. You give him an awkward air-hug, rather than an actual hug, because you don't want to catch the plague from this guy. You feel like it would be worse than the regular plague, somehow, he looks diseased in ways that you can't place.

Then you leave and feel gross for the rest of the day.