And the timing's right. Mr. P.'s looking for good fiction writers. It's a match. People drift in late. That was the refrain of the evening.
People drift in late.
That explains it. Mr. P. shrugged as I thought back upon the months I'd waited to hear his, and Mrs. P.'s, decision about my novel and then to see the contract. You got it. Ten minutes later, two panhandlers stumbled into Pandora with their hands out. I did the same.