“Maureen Hopkins?” The woman at the door flashes a badge. “Continuity.”

Maureen instinctively draws back into her apartment. “Is this a… TV-prank thing?” she asks.

“Only sort of,” sighs the agent. “We’ve already filmed the scene with your wound, so we need to establish it back here. Hold still.”

Maureen tries to slam the door, but a boot wedges it open, and a knife reaches in to slice down her arm. “Fuck!” she says. “I’m calling the police!”

“Sure, we need them here anyway. And go throw up.”

“What?”

“By my calendar,” says Continuity, checking a clipboard, “you’re already pregnant.”