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Paparazzi of Dreams

Kristine Kathryn Rusch

I don’t get it,” she says, adjusting the telephoto.

It’s all about waiting—her and me, sitting in the car, waiting for the sun to go down, waiting for our third—Ryan—to signal that Xavier has gone to bed. I’m stuck in the passenger seat with Morgana to my left. She’s the experienced one; I’m the rookie. At least, that’s how I’m playing it.

We’re parked at the end of a dirt road just outside the gate. The guard hasn’t seen us, won’t come down even if he does. Just call the sheriff and we’re off, gone before anyone gets here because we not only have a scanner, we have headquarters with their moles in the various law enforcement agencies all over the country monitoring every call.

Celebrityville USA. We’re all so lucky that everyone wants a piece of the action.

I mean,” Morgana says, still fiddling with the focus. She’s using the damn camera as a spyglass. “My dreams are just as crazed. Really. The last time I got Xavier, we get the standard naked-in-front-of-a-crowd thing. And you know, it’s from his point of view, so except for that quick take at his johnson, we don’t see much of anything—just crowd reaction and laughter, lots of laughter. Hell, I can have that dream on my own.”

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