The receptionist stops at a door and opens it. Her long legs span from the earth up to the clouds. My stomach seems lodged somewhere in my windpipe and I go back to my safe place. The terrifying part is walking down a sterile hallway lined with glass-front cubicles and glossy framed movie posters to sign a seven-figure contract for the film translation. I’ve been writing and drawing Razor Fish since I was twelve, and every single second of the fun part, to me, has been creating it. I nod, trying to trick my thoughts into agreement-Look at this office! Look at these people! Bright lights! Big city!-but it’s a wasted effort. You’re here to sign, not to impress anyone. “I’m fine,” I lie, but he just snorts in response, straightening. I MENTALLY DRAW THE panels of the scene before me as we follow the receptionist down the marble hallway: the woman wears six-inch black heels, her legs go on forever, her hips shift with each step.
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