Day 8.

"For the last time--" I hacked out, spitting blood.

And so I died.

There are two hundred pages left in this book, and you thought there was no one left to chronicle these exploits.

"Oh," you think.

"I see. He's coming back, he must be. It's been done before, to say the least. Swerved to safety right after the camera cut, or faked his death.

Why isn't he waking up? Where's the next chapter? Wait. Is this for real? Who tells the story now?"

But there is you.

You sidestep your inhibitions.

Face it, you were born to narrate.