“Well, gosh,” Greer said. “I thought… I didn’t realize I was going to be the only one here!”

“We don’t mind,” sang the crowd, tenors and baritones, basses. “We’re glad you’re here.”

“You’ve been so nice to me! All these presents, all this food, there’s no way I can…”

“Please take it,” they sang. “We want you to have it.” Ten or so of the tenors got together and wove a descant high above the rumble of the crowd.

“But what am I supposed to do with all of this? I mean, look at all these stuffed animals, my apartment isn’t even nearly big enough to hold any of them. I could rent a storage locker…” She faltered, hesitant.

“We’ll build you a house, let us build you a house,” sang the basses. “With two and a half bathrooms and three bedrooms,” harmonized the tenors. And, all together, “A quarter acre of lawn so you don’t feel crowded!”

“Gosh!” said Greer, and blushed and fanned herself with the program. 230 Mary Sue Gets Her Own, it said. Room 412.

“Are you too hot, open the windows, open them wide and let the air in,” sang her admirers, and, before she could stop them, pried open the portholes. Seven hundred of them were sucked into space before she could say anything, not that they would have heard her, anyway, once all the air left the room, swallowed by a geosynchronous orbit.