Ah, graduation. What a time it was. My favorite part was not having to marry Max. That, and cake. The graduates are decked in red robes and hats. Everyone is there. It's a veritable bacchanal of graduational fun, sans the requisite beach balls and stoned seniors. The guy at the front (principal? PTA president? Disguised alien hunter? If you don't wear a nametag, I'm at a loss at this point) congratulates the graduates ninety times, and continues on, "Now it's my pleasure to introduce our special guest for this evening. A three-time Hugo Award winner for excellence in science fiction and an international best-selling author…Bryce McCain!" International best-selling author? Shouldn't he be charging $10,000 for a speaking engagement? I don't know which international best-selling author spoke at your graduation, but at mine it was…well, no one. And out comes Mr. McCain, with his black-rimmed glasses and I-am-your-death-knell smile. He shakes the principal's hand. The press kit exchanges concerned glances from all around the auditorium. Run! Or he'll beat you to death with one of his Hugo Awards!