Oysterette loved book publishing. She had worked her way up the publishing ladder at piteous salaries, living on editorial lunches with aging exercise-book writers, and sharing an apartment with three roomates who kept kosher and wouldn't let her touch their silverware. Still, she had a job in book publishing. Most of her fellow graduates from the English literature program did not, except the ones in the pornography industry.

The day a new owner of the once-proud literary house eliminated everything but a line of pop-up puppet books was the worst day of her life.