"...what I do with my own time" PS

I blinked hazily from my bed, trying to lift a hand to block out the bright light in my face. I noticed two things immediately: first, I couldn't move my arm. Second, the bright light was being held by someone I knew well. Neuromancer. And Neuromancer was holding a very sharp knife.

Even though his face was shadowed behind the bright light, I could see his eyes, dangerous and cold like an old dog's. "I read your blog from Tuesday," he said, his voice as hard as a steamshovel.

"Oh, yeah?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light. "What did you think?"

He looked at the knife like he was trying to read something on the blade. "You said some pretty serious stuff. About William Gibson. About his books."

I tried to laugh. My voice cracked. "Oh, come on, Neuromancer, you know I love you! You know William Gibson is..."

He put his finger against his lips and my voice failed under his glare. "Oh, I know," he said, his voice hushed. "I just wanted to make sure you know. When you wake up, remember that there are some lines you just don't cross."

I was about to protest when he hit me right in the forehead. His fist was harder than I expected. When I woke up, he was back on the shelf, like he had never left. Or like he had accomplished what he wanted to do.

And the knife was resting on the pillow beside my head.