conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Esther, Webb, Webbs with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'Final Girls'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first four paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Final Girls
  Dr. Webb smiled. "I knew you wouldn't," she said. "If you'd agree to sign a few release forms, I could help you with that."
  THE PAPERWORK was...daunting, at best. At worst, it was a Sisyphean nightmare designed to keep most people from reading everything they were agreeing to. Esther pinched the bridge of her nose and forced herself to focus, reading every line, looking for the hidden hooks behind the tempting bait.
  The room where she'd been tucked away to read and sign her release forms was small and featureless. The walls were glossy white, clearly repainted on a regular basis to keep imperfections from creeping in. The table matched them perfectly, and was bolted to the polished white tile floor at the center of the room. The bolt heads were exposed gunmetal gray, and somehow that little bit of variation made everything around her all the more clinically sterile and unnerving.
  The staff files on the facility mentioned that several of the employees came from a theatrical background. A little digging on her part had revealed that they had, each of them, been involved with haunted house design. Several had won awards, placing among the top five percent in the world. And they'd given it all up to come here and rewire the brains of people desperate enough to submit to a half-tested, half-baked idea of therapeutic treatment.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: three more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Jennifer is huddled in the shadow of a crypt, her face almost unrecognizable under the mask of mud and blood and bruises. Esther drops to her knees, reaching for her friend, and Jennifer reaches back, and they cling to each other, both of them weeping. Once the tears come, it's difficult to make them stop. They escape in great, shuddering gasps, Jennifer clinging to Esther, Esther clinging to Jennifer, and it feels like the world must split open and swallow them whole. What else can there be left for them?
  Not homework. Their backpacks are gone, lost in their headlong flight across the cemetery. Even if Esther thought they'd still be out there to be found, she wouldn't go looking. They were unattended for too long. Daphne and her gang had too many opportunities for mischief. They can't be trusted anymore.
  Not curfews. She and Jennifer were supposed to be home hours ago, judging by the moon, by the absence of the sun. Her father will be scared, and as soon as he sees her, all that fear will transform into anger—first at her, and then at the bullies who created this situation. He'll go into a towering rage. Nothing she says will be able to stop him, and on some level, she knows she won't really try, that she'll want to see him rain down fire and brimstone on the people who hurt her. But it won't help. It won't change anything for the better. It may change things for the worse. Daphne and her gang have dealt a devastating blow to people they see as outside the social structure and hence out of their control. If Esther and Jennifer keep their heads down and keep out of the way, this could be where it ends.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last three paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The living room of their small colonial home was silent, but that was normal. Esther didn't usually leave her room when there was no one else in the house, preferring to sit by the window and watch for signs that they were about to be attacked. No sooner was the door shut than Esther came pounding down the stairs, hitting them each as hard as she had when she was sixteen and had no weakness in her ankles or concern about falling.
  Jennifer lit up at the sight of her, and let go of the overlay of her adult self, which she had been—has been—struggling to hold in place since she left the house this morning. It's so much easier to relax into the seamless "now" of the teenage self her equipment created. The one her equipment can't unmake. Too many shocks, too many stresses—it will be years before she can find a way to delete the ghosts of a past she never had from her conscious mind. If she even chooses to go back. She may be an echo of a girl who never lived, but that doesn't mean she wants to die. Not when she's finally alive.
  They embrace in the middle of the room, two teenage girls who never existed, out of place and out of time and finally back where they feel like they belong, and everything is just the way they want it to be. When they let each other go, they continue holding hands, and they walk, the risen dead of their own past selves, onward toward the trembling and uncertain future.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: When they let each other go, they continue holding hands, and they walk, the risen dead of their own past selves, onward toward the trembling and uncertain future..
  They embrace in the middle of the room, two teenage girls who never existed, out of place and out of time and finally back where they feel like they belong, and everything is just the way they want it to be. Not when she's finally alive. She may be an echo of a girl who never lived, but that doesn't mean she wants to die. If she even chooses to go back. Too many shocks, too many stresses—it will be years before she can find a way to delete the ghosts of a past she never had from her conscious mind. The one her equipment can't unmake. It's so much easier to relax into the seamless "now" of the teenage self her equipment created.
  Jennifer lit up at the sight of her, and let go of the overlay of her adult self, which she had been—has been—struggling to hold in place since she left the house this morning. No sooner was the door shut than Esther came pounding down the stairs, hitting them each as hard as she had when she was sixteen and had no weakness in her ankles or concern about falling. Esther didn't usually leave her room when there was no one else in the house, preferring to sit by the window and watch for signs that they were about to be attacked.The living room of their small colonial home was silent, but that was normal