Morthisal woke the next morning, realized he'd spent too long at the pool with the other motel residents, and hadn't remembered to put power up overnight with his TENS machine, resulting in a frown because he knew all too well what this meant.

  "Get it over with," Morthisal spoke quietly.

  The electric shock was as bad as he remembered. The lights flickered, and one of the metal knives flew out of the socket as he jerked back. Morthisal shook his hand and cursed.

  After he had recovered, Morthisal went on another short run with Kenadee. His legs ached as much or more than they had the day before. It wasn't exactly progress, but he had to admit he felt better overall. Morthisal's steps were no longer labored as he took flights of stairs. His general pallor had become more suitable for the California sun, and if Morthisal wasn't mistaken, he had lost some of his paunch.

  Morthisal, dressed in jeans and a plain gray T-shirt after a shower, spent a little time going over yesterday's script. He was surprised they had let him leave with the sample, but it had been a strange encounter. They might not realize he still had it.

  His phone buzzed with a message from Yvette.

  How does your day look?

  Busy, Morthisal typed back. I have a meeting with an acting coach.

  An acting coach?

  In all the excitement, he'd barely had time to chat with Yvette about the audition and his search for acting lessons.

  I am auditioning for a role in an independent film starring Serena Winters.

  Holy shit. When was this? Did you meet her? What's she like?

  She can be rude. However, she seems to be a competent actress.

  So you met her. Wow. What's she like?

  Yes. I auditioned with her. She is a fascinating individual.

  I need more info. Let's talk later. Send me something to make me smile.

  Morthisal snapped a photo of himself making what he hoped was a charming expression and sent it back. Her response came quickly.

  You look healthy, or a little constipated. Hard to tell. But I'll take it.

  He laughed and typed back. I am working on my range. Perhaps constipation will be my next role.

  Morthisal chuckled at Yvette's next jest. Please don't. The world isn't ready. What's wrong with your hair?

  Morthisal paused and reread her words, then walked into the bathroom and peered in the mirror.

  "By the shadows," he whispered and touched the side of his head. A white streak had appeared, perhaps half an inch wide. Morthisal's eyes narrowed at the sight.

  I'm being pulled into yet another meeting. Gotta go. I want to hear it all later.

  Morthisal stared into the mirror, fingering the white hair. He needed to consult with someone who knew how to fix this issue. Kristol or Kenadee, for that matter, would know the answer.

  After confirming with Marty that he had no filming scheduled for the day, Morthisal called the service number on Serena's card and left a brief message asking her to return his call. He had half a dozen saved numbers from agents and producers who had seen the trailer. She would be able to help him make an informed choice when it came time to make calls.

  Morthisal then left the Hollywood Hacienda and went to a local ATM to withdraw cash for Rex's acting lesson.

  The Uber dropped him at Rex's address in North Hollywood. The building looked like it had survived several earthquakes and decided to give up halfway through the last one. Cracked stucco. Faded paint. A rusted metal staircase led to a second floor. Morthisal was reminded of his current dwelling and found this location, what was the word? Ah. Quaint.

  Morthisal climbed the stairs, found the door marked 2B, and knocked.

  Heavy footsteps approached. The door swung open with a creak.

  Rex Hollinday stood in the doorway. Early sixties. Deep lines carved into his face, and not tanned despite living in California, a little on the pale side. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. His dark brown and graying hair stuck up at odd angles. His shirt was buttoned wrong.

  "Greetings." Morthisal inclined his head.

  The man looked disheveled at first glance. But Morthisal noticed the clean fingernails. The fresh shave. The absence of any smell beyond soap. Rex had simply dressed in a hurry.

  Rex looked Morthisal up and down. His expression said Good luck with that acting thing, kid.

  "Vince, right?"

  "I am. How are you this fine day?"

  Rex grunted and turned away. He motioned for Morthisal to follow.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  They walked through a cramped apartment, through the kitchen, where a pile of dishes sat, clean, on a drying rack. Mail lay stacked neatly on a small table.

  Rex led him to a back office and pushed open the door.

  The room was small. Barely ten feet square. But every inch of wall space was covered with movie posters. Some featured Rex in his younger days. Action films with lurid titles. Westerns with dramatic sunset backgrounds. War movies with grim-faced men. A few classics mixed in Casablanca. The Godfather. Sunset Boulevard.

  Piles of scripts sat next to a large, dark wood desk. An old typewriter occupied the center of the desk with a stack of pages beside it.

  Morthisal was impressed that, despite the run-down appearance, there didn't seem to be a speck of dust. The framed posters hung in perfect alignment. Even his desk, with the exception of a large ashtray overflowing with cigar buts, was clean and polished.

  "Sit." Rex pointed at a folding chair.

  Morthisal sat and pointed at the typewriter. "Working on a script?"

  Rex grunted and dropped into a worn leather chair behind the desk. It creaked under his weight. He pulled out a drawer and extracted a small metal box.

  "Hundred bucks. Cash."

  Morthisal withdrew five twenties from his wallet and placed them on the desk.

  Rex counted the bills slowly. Folded them. Tucked them into the metal box. Locked it. Put it back in the drawer.

  "Cash is king." Rex leaned back in his chair. "Now. You want to learn empathy. That what you said on the phone?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  Morthisal paused. "I have played a villain too well. I need to demonstrate I can display more emotions."

  "That's horseshit." Rex's voice remained flat. "Try again."

  Morthisal stared at Rex. Rex nodded once.

  "I have an audition in three days. The role requires me to portray a kind and sympathetic character. I failed spectacularly at my first attempt."

  Rex nodded. "Better. Honesty gets us somewhere. Bullshit wastes my time and your money."

  Morthisal fought a grin. Despite the man's rudeness, one thing he could respect was a person who said what was on their mind without the double-talk that was so prevalent in this world.

  Rex stood and moved to a small filing cabinet in the corner. Pulled out a folder and returned to his seat.

  "You know what empathy is?"

  "I believe it is understanding another person's feelings."

  "Sorta." Rex opened the folder. "That's sympathy. Empathy is feeling what they feel. Big difference. Sympathy is standing outside someone's house watching it burn and saying 'That sucks.' Empathy is standing in the flames with them."

  Morthisal frowned. "I see."

  "No, you don't. But you will." Rex pulled out a photograph and slid it across the desk. "Tell me what you see."

  The photo showed a woman in her thirties. She sat on a park bench. Her hands covered her face.

  "A woman crying."

  "Why is she crying?"

  "Perhaps she was... attacked by some street person and lost her belongings and financial resources. Now her only recourse is to sob." Morthisal didn't add a 'pathetic' at the end of his guess.

  Rex's eyes widened.

  "Maybe. Or maybe she just watched her kid get on the school bus for the first time and realized they're growing up." Rex tapped the photo. "Point is, you don't know. But your job as an actor is to make the audience believe you know. To make them feel what she feels, even though you're making it all up. And yeah. Even if she was just robbed."

  He pulled out another photo. An old man standing in front of a house with a 'For Sale' sign.

  "What's his story?"

  "He had grown too old for this world, dislikes his children, and is selling his belongings to spite them."

  Rex shook his head. "Man. You got a weird way of perceiving things."

  "I have been embedded in my villain role for too long."

  "Oh. That method shit. Well, snap out of it, kid. Next thing you know, you'll be trying to create an evil empire."

  Don't tempt me.

  "Maybe the guy can't live alone anymore, and he wants to move in with his family. Could be anything." Rex gathered the photos. "Here's what I learned the hard way. You can't fake empathy by pretending to care. You fake it by finding something real in yourself that connects to what the character feels. Even if it's not the same thing."

  Morthisal leaned forward. "Explain."

  "Let's say your character just lost his wife. You never lost a wife. But maybe you lost something else. A pet. A friend. A dream. You take that feeling, and you use it. You trick your brain into thinking the character's loss is your loss. You make yourself think like that character. You're thinking like this dark lord fella. How is that different?"

  Morthisal frowned at the simple solution. Why had he not considered such a thing?

  Rex stood and moved to the center of the small room.

  "Stand up."

  Morthisal rose.

  "Think of something you lost. Something that hurt."

  His mind churned around losing his empire to the heroes of Mythralon.

  "Got something?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Now I want you to tell me about your day. Just talk. But while you talk, hold onto that feeling of loss."

  "My day has been uneventful. I woke early. Went for a run with a friend."

  "Keep going. Feel the loss while you talk."

  Morthisal continued describing his morning. The shower. Getting dressed. The Uber ride. As he spoke, he let himself remember watching Yvette's SUV disappear around the corner a day before. The hollow feeling in his chest.

  His voice changed. Softened. The words came slower.

  Rex held up a hand. "Stop. You hear that?"

  "Hear what?"

  "Your voice. It changed. Got quieter. More weight to it. That's what we're looking for." Rex sat back down. "You just did empathy without trying. You connected a real feeling to fake words about your boring morning. That's the trick."

  Morthisal frowned again. "So I must find a personal connection to the emotions the character experiences."

  "Now you're getting it." Rex pulled out a slim script from one of the piles. "But here's the hard part. You gotta do it fast. And you gotta do it while hitting your marks, remembering your lines, and reacting to the other actors. It's like juggling chainsaws while riding a unicycle."

  "Yes. I see." Morthisal had no idea what the man was saying, but he understood what his words implied.

  "That's why a lot of actors suck at it." Rex tossed the script to Morthisal. "Read the top scene. Guy just found out his daughter is moving across the country."

  Morthisal read through the dialogue. The father tried to be supportive while clearly heartbroken.

  "Now do it. Find something real and use it."

  Morthisal stood. He thought of Yvette breaking off their relationship in Seattle, before he had moved to Hollywood.

  The words came out flat. Lifeless.

  Rex shook his head. "You're thinking too much. Stop trying to be sad. Just be. Let the feeling exist, and the words will follow."

  They tried again. And again. Each time, Rex offered blunt criticism.

  "Too much."

  "Not enough."

  "You sound like you're reading a grocery list."

  After the sixth attempt, Morthisal slammed the script down. "This is impossible."

  "Good." Rex smiled for the first time. "Now you're feeling something real. Use that frustration, kid. Channel it."

  Morthisal picked up the script. Read the lines again. This time, he let his genuine frustration bleed into the character's struggle to maintain composure.

  Rex nodded slowly. "Better. Not great. But better."

  "Was this hard for you to learn?"

  Rex removed his glasses and cleaned them with his shirt. "I played tough guys my whole career. Then I got offered a role as a father who loses his son. I couldn't do it. Bombed the audition. Lost the part. That role would've changed everything for me."

  He put his glasses back on. "So I learned. Found a teacher. Worked at it. By the time I figured it out, I was too old for leading man parts. I did smaller roles, got recognition, won a few awards, got bigger parts. You get the idea. Now I teach, and I still work. So. We good? Book you for another class?"

  Morthisal nod came easily. He had found the perfect teacher.