Chapter One
The ring light made everything look better than it was. Claire knew this, had known it for two years, which was exactly how long she'd been setting it up in the corner of her living room every other Friday night and pretending her apartment was the kind of place a person wanted to be seen in.
In reality: one dying pothos on the windowsill, a stack of library books she hadn't returned since February, and a throw blanket she'd bought because it looked good on camera and then discovered she actually liked. The ring light solved all of it. Behind her, to the left, was a shelf she'd arranged specifically for the videos — spines facing out, grouped loosely by color so it looked intentional without looking precious. To the right: the wall. Just the wall.
She pulled up Metcha on her laptop and toggled her status to Present.
Twelve. Not bad for a Friday. She'd hit thirty-one once, back in October when she'd reviewed a book that somehow caught the edge of a Reddit thread, and spent four hours moving people through the queue until her voice gave out and she had to type an apology into the community tab. She didn't want to do that again. Twelve was good. Twelve was manageable.
She straightened the collar of the shirt she'd changed into three times, clicked Complete Turn on the empty queue to clear any ghost entries from last week, and tapped the button to call in the first fan.
By fan number eight she had recommended the same book four times, which was not a record but was close. By fan number ten she had refilled her water glass, switched off the overhead light because it was creating a weird halo, and learned that someone named BritneyReadsBooks had driven two hours specifically to attend a local book fair that Claire had mentioned in a video eight months ago and found her now-favorite author there, and this information made Claire feel something she didn't have a word for — not pride exactly, something quieter and more alarming.
Fan eleven disconnected before the call connected. She marked it as a skip and moved on.
Fan twelve — the last one — appeared on screen a little after ten-thirty. He looked like he'd been sitting in the same position for a while, patient in the way of someone who has learned that waiting is just reading with worse lighting. He had a paperback face-down on the desk beside him. She recognized the cover before he said a word.