Kia Kuniya is the pint-size gal, with big-time dreams, who bolts from Cali to Brooklyn with her bunny and a backpack.

As sunlight begins to peek into my room, I flip the hourglass and let it flow. For the next sixty minutes, my fingers are in continuous motion, typing away with the passion of a pianist performing in Carnegie Hall, until the last grain falls.

I’m a writer.

Might not have heard of me yet. Trust me, you will.

Dylan Miller is the novelist incapable of reaching the end.

Dear Reader,

In slavish devotion to the complete, unvarnished truth—except for the occasional portion where I lacquer on a thick coat or two, to ensure a more pleasing story for Reader and Writer alike—I must confess I was not an obvious candidate to cast in the role of Savior.

I don’t offer my subway seat to preggos, never clean the lint trap in the communal dryer, and I’m not shy about stealing from the dead.

Monsieur Floppy knew from the first sniff not to trust him.

I’m no fan of Dylan Miller.

Miss Kia’s BFF, Dakota? Her scent is sweet as spring flowers.

This guy? Whenever he’s near, I breathe through my ears.