Some nights later, a different fox stood before the front door of the small green house. The fox adjusted a pinched black hat that sat atop its head, took a deep breath, and knocked. The publisher fox opened the door, its bow tie slightly askew, its fur ruffled and a book tucked under one arm. The publisher fox was about to speak when its eyes widened at the sight of the manuscript held by the fox at its door. At the publisher fox’s request, the guest handed over its manuscript and watched as the publisher fox began reading and wandered away, gesturing for its guest to follow. The guest quietly stepped inside and trailed the publisher fox as it circled a cosmic sized telescope hung in the center of its house. After several laps, the publisher fox stopped reading and spun on its heels, looked back at its guest with a large smile spread across its face, and said, "Pardon me, but I don't believe I've introduced myself. I, as I assume you know, am a publisher fox, and you, my friend, are most assuredly an author fox."

Author Fox

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