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As Emma Straub led the way to the BookCourt observatory, high above their vaunted skylight, she curtsied to Safran Foer. “Surely, you have every right to the throne, sir.”
Foer arched his eyebrows, “Why?”
“Because you wrote your first story about being 13 when you were 13.”
Hodgman, looking through his tattered books of lies, seconded Straub’s reasoning. “She’s right, you know. You are our new king.”
In ceremony, they exchanged good reviews, bottles of sugary wine and talked about whether they would have been friends when they were teenagers (if they had had friends). “Coronation,” hummed Foer. “What a beautiful, bell-sounding word!”
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