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Jim wakes up in a cold sweat. He realizes that everything that I am writing about him, and everything that's been written about him by everyone else (which, he realized, when he wakes up in a cold sweat, is no-one) is a dream. He gets that he is my dream. He understands in a fit of hot panic that he is my invention, that he really doesn't exist except in my mind, that if I stop writing about him that he will die. He pleads with me not to do this. Please, he says. I'll do anything. I can relate. If my life depended on someone not pulling a life-supporting plug, I'd whine even more than Jim's shameless wailing. I make a deal with Jim. If we see any money from our mutual efforts, we'll split it. I'm about to ask Jim for an advance, but he has gone to take a leak.