Musemuggers
Title: Coins in the Fountain
Author: keppiehed
Word Count: 2565
A/N: Written for musemuggers, Challenge # 512, Option #1, “San Lorenzo”.
Andrew didn’t know he’d died until a quarter past nine on Monday morning. He’d scalded himself on the first sip of his morning caffè macchiato (extra espresso) and in the pain of his distraction he’d stumbled over the curb. The resulting misstep had put him straight into the path of the oncoming commuter bus, but Andrew hadn’t felt a thing. He didn’t even realize he’d died; he only knew something was wrong because the alarm on his phone was telling him that his conference had started an hour and fifteen minutes ago, and Andrew was never late. He figured he must be dead-or he would be in short order-if he missed the morning meeting with the senior partners.
“You Andy Jameson?”
Andrew blinked and realized he’d been staring at the mangled mess on the road that had been his body. He turned to see a man in stained overalls and a rusty bucket in his hand. “I’m Andrew, yes.”
The man grunted. “Come on, then. We haven’t got all day.”
Andrew followed the man away from the whine of the sirens. “Are you …” he swallowed the word ‘God’, as it seemed obvious that this man was no such deity, “an angel? Or something?”
The man laughed, and then began to choke. He paused to clear his throat and spit a glob of greenish phlegm on the sidewalk. “An angel. Sure. Or something.”
Andrew stopped following him. “Then why should I just follow you? What’s going on?”
“Name’s Horace,” the man said. “I don’t give a hoot what you do. I got a job to do. You can come or not. ”
Andrew watched Horace walk through the crowded city streets. No one seemed to see him. Andrew ran to catch up, his hand-tooled Italian leather loafers pinching his toes as he sprinted. “I get it. I saw this show, once, about this girl who died. She got hit with a toilet seat from a plane, and then she turned into a grim reaper. It was like she was in Limbo. It was a pretty good show; I’m not sure why it got canceled. There were only three seasons. I think it had Mandy Patinkin. He has a really good voice. Did you know that he won a Tony? You wouldn’t think it when you look at him, but that man has an outstanding voice. I saw him once onstage, and he was terrific. Anyway, he was one of the reapers on that show. That’s what they called them: reapers. So, are you going to teach me how to take people’s souls? I’m ready. I mean, I don’t know what I did to deserve this assignment, but I can do this. Do I just touch them, or what? Horace?”
Horace was shaking all over, and it took Andrew a moment to realize that he was laughing. “Grim reapers? Wait ‘til I tell Larry. You guys get dumber every week, I swear.”
Andrew frowned. “Sorry. I ramble a little when I’m nervous. But I am dead, right?”
“Ayup.” Horace adjusted his cap.
“So if I’m not a reaper, what am I supposed to think?” Andrew asked.
Horace made a left turn. “I dunno, kid. Some crazy shit, by the sounds of it.”
“I’m not crazy!” Andrew said. “I’m just trying to figure out what’s happening. This can’t be heaven.”
“Ah, here we are!” Horace slowed his stride as they approached a fountain in the square. “You nearly delayed us, but we made it in time. No worries.”
“No worries about what?” Andrew shouted.
Horace set down his bucket. “You don’t want to get behind schedule, laddie. The docket’s already tighter than the girdle of a Baptist minister’s wife at an all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast.” Horace cackled. “Hah! Baptist minister’s wife ...”
“Am I dreaming?” Andrew sank to the cobblestones, ignoring the certain ruin that would befall his custom Milano-fit three piece Brooks Brothers suit. “I’m dreaming.”
Horace pulled a dented tin from the depths of his overall pocket and wrestled it open. “You ain’t dreaming, kid. Now, watch and learn.” He took a pinch of dust from the tin and blew it into the fountain, then closed the tin and re-pocketed it.
“Watch what? Watch while you break every pollution law in California?” Andrew asked.
Horace ignored him and reached for his bucket. He leaned over the fountain and extended a grubby hand.
In spite of himself, Andrew couldn’t help but wonder about Horace’s actions. It almost looked as if … “You know that stealing coins out of a fountain is petty theft, right? In some places it’s even considered disorderly conduct.”
Horace poked a tongue out of his mouth as he concentrated on the water. “We’re not stealing.”
“That’s right. We’re not steal-”
“Sh!” Horace squinted. “I can’t hear the humming with all your yammering. And I already warned you about the docket. It’s tighter than a-”
“Girdle.” Andrew scowled. “I know, I heard the first time.”
Horace sighed. “Do you want to learn how this is done or not? You can’t see from all the way over there. On your feet, boy. You’re doing the next one.”
Andrew didn’t bother asking. He looked into the sky, but there were no forthcoming tunnels of light to ferry him to his eternal reward. It didn’t seem that he had much choice other than to follow Horace’s example, whatever it was. He stood up and brushed at his trousers.
“Now, you gotta get a feel for it,” Horace said. “You can see some of them right away, but for some you just gotta wait.”
“Some what?” Andrew asked. He stared at the undulating surface of the fountain.
“There’s one. See?” Horace reached into the water and scooped up a coin. He opened his fist.
Andrew nodded. “Yeah. It’s a penny, all right.”
“No! It’s a wish,” Horace said. “There’s another one! Now they’re starting to show.”
Andrew watched Horace pluck a few more coins from the water. He chose mostly pennies, but there was one nickel in the bunch.
“Why don’t you give it a try?” Horace suggested after a moment.
“Because I don’t want a misdemeanor on my record?” Andrew said. “I don’t plan on giving St. Peter any reason to refuse me entrance at the Pearly Gates.”
“St. Peter, my ass. He’s a right old bastard if ever there was one,” Horace said.
“How can you say that?” Andrew asked, shocked.
“Well, he is,” Horace said. “Don’t play poker with him, I’m telling you. He’s a terrible cheat. He’ll rob you blind and do it with a smile.”
Andrew snorted. “Says the man with his arms elbow-deep in children’s wishes.”
Horace grinned. “I knew you’d catch on! Took you long enough. Now, go on. Give it a try for yourself.”
Andrew swallowed. “Fine.” He shrugged off his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves and reached into the water. When he felt his fingers close around a metal circle, he pulled his arm free. “There, okay?”
Horace peered into his palm. “Just when I thought you were coming along … what, did you just grab the nearest quarter?”
Andrew shrugged. “Yeah.”
Horace sighed. “Toss it back. It isn’t ripe yet. You have to listen. I used the claridust to help you focus.”
“Listen?” Andrew asked. He looked at the water. Through the chlorinated clarity he could see the multicolored tiles beneath. The coins scattered the bottom in a haphazard mosaic, the denominations as random as the placement. He listened to the water falling and wondered if that was what the coot meant. He heard someone singing an almost recognizable tune. Andrew turned his head to hear it more clearly. At first it had sounded as if it were coming from down the street, farther away, but now it sounded closer, almost in the water. He took a few steps around the fountain, trying to locate the notes, but there must be some trick. Andrew cocked his head. The sound was coming from under one of the downspouts, of that he was sure. One of the coins directly under a cascade had a purplish glint. He could nearly touch it if he stretched. All he had to do was reach his hand and grab it. He couldn’t explain it, but that coin was definitely humming. Andrew reached out and snatched it. The coin vibrated in his hand.
“That’s the one!” Horace said. “Noisy little bugger, isn’t it? If you couldn’t hear that, I would’ve thought you were deaf.”
Andrew held the penny between his thumb and forefinger. “What’s going on? How is this possible? Coins don’t sing. Or glow.”
Horace shook his bucket, where the coins he’d collected rested. “Of course they don’t. But wishes do. And it’s our job to find the ones that are coming due.”
Andrew’s mouth fell open. He watched Horace reach inside his sweat-stained overalls and scratch himself, and it was just too much to believe. “Are you telling me … are you saying that you’re some kind of fairy? You grant little kids’ wishes? Give me a break!”
“What?” Horace held out the bucket, indicating that Andrew should deposit his penny into that rusty repository, and he began walking again. “What’s so hard to believe? You thought you were a reaper! As if that isn’t a stupid thing to think! Everyone knows Grim works incomitatus. But he’s a helluva guy, you know; don’t let his reputation scare you off. If you ever have a chance to see his bottlecap collection, I highly recommend it. You will not regret it. And he makes a mean cup of lapsang souchong, if you’re ever invited.”
Andrew glanced back at the now-silent fountain. “I’m still confused.”
Horace grunted but didn’t answer.
“Are you going to explain anything?” Andrew asked.
“What’s to explain?” Horace asked. He paused at the corner of Main and San Lorenzo and took a crumpled map from his pocket. “I never know if it’s left or down here ...”
Andrew folded his arms. “I could help if I knew where we were headed. Just sayin’.”
Horace looked up. “It’s just that the docket’s tighter than-”
Andrew held up a hand. “I know. It’s pretty damn tight. I am-used to be-a commodities broker, so I understand time constraints. I could help. My phone has GPS, but I want to know what the deal is here. What is the nature of the docket that you’re so concerned about? That’s all I want to know.”
Horace took a handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped the back of his neck. “Wishes, kid. I thought you got that from the whole fountain thing. It seemed like you finally got the hang of it back there.”
“What do you mean?” Andrew asked. “You don’t expect me to actually believe that you’re a fairy. Come on.”
“Of course not. That’s who grants the wishes.” Horace shook his head. “Don’t you know anything about how the world works? Anything? First you’re on about being Grim himself, of all things, and then you think that you’re a fairy. It’s not right. I blame the internet. Kids don’t read anymore or something, I don’t know. But it’s not right, not knowing that fairies grant wishes. Jesus. What’s the world coming to? Maybe it’s the video games. Grand Theft Auto or whatever it is they do now. Sick, that’s what it is.”
“Just ... can you hold on a minute, there, Grandpa?” Andrew ran a hand through his hair. “I still don’t understand. Are you saying that you take these coins to fairies?”
“Well, sure and begorrah they aren’t going to take themselves, are they?” Horace asked. “What kind of sense does that make?”
Andrew was starting to think that there was no sense in anything he’d done since a quarter past, and perhaps this was a version of hell he’d never chanced to contemplate.
“The thing is, the fairies can’t leave Fae. I wouldn’t think I’d have to explain that, since it’s considered common knowledge, but you’re standing there looking like you been hit with a cane in Congress, so maybe I have to spell it out.” Horace squinted at his map and turned it upside down, then back again. “We collect the wishes that are maturing and take them to the borderlands, and then they are the province of the fairies to deal with. Simple. But I can tell you that time is a problem in Fae, so we’d best not miss our window. Those guys are a little ...” He twirled his finger around his temple.
Andrew couldn’t resist a joke. “Away with the fairies, you mean?”
“Ha. Right you are. So fire up your fancy phone and lead the way. I always forget if it’s a left here or down,” Horace said.
Andrew frowned. “Oh. About that. See, I thought you needed to get to someplace … I don’t know … not insane. Like, somewhere on a human map? So, yeah. Not going to happen. I didn’t realize you were a schizo.”
“I knew you didn’t have the backbone,” Horace said. “I so much as told Larry. Should’ve assigned you to Sandman detail, the wanker.”
Andrew shook his head. “You know you just sound deluded, right? Fairies? Fae? The whole thing is stupid. Wishes don’t even come true. Everyone knows that. Next thing you’ll be telling me there’s a division of people who work on granting the wishes from birthday parties and blowing on eyelashes and dandelion seeds. I don’t know why I’m even still talking to you.”
Horace took a pair of glasses out of his breast pocket. “Right, I’m the stupid one. Fairies grant wishes, but they do them in their own way, in their own time. ‘Be careful what you wish for’ and all that. And you’re the one who’s ignorant about the wish system; the fairies deal direct with the other wishes. They need us for coins because they’re fused to human-rendered metal and the wishes are mired here. I’d explain more, but you’re an ass and it isn’t worth my time. Ah! I knew it! It’s through the corner of San Lorenzo. I’d lose my own head if it weren’t attached.” Horace crammed the map back into his pocket, grabbed his claridust tin and blew a handful into the intersection. The outlines of a door became visible, and Horace gripped a doorknob and turned. “Since I’m deluded, I guess our paths won’t cross again. Give my best to ‘saint’ Peter-if you can find him.” He opened the air and stepped through.
The bustle of the busy street punctuated Andrew’s sudden vulnerability. He was alone, even amidst the midday passersby. No one seemed to see or even jostle him when they moved by on the sidewalk. He looked up and down the street, but there were no familiar faces and no one else waiting to shepherd him to glory. There were no cherubs or winged seraphs, no trumpets or bright lights. It was becoming clear that what he had seen was the most magic he was likely to witness, and he had let it walk into Fae without him.
As the lines on his portal faded, Andrew scrambled to find the doorknob before the door disappeared. His heart thumped in relief as the knob fell into his palm, and Andrew turned his wrist to access the gateway. With eyes open wide, he stepped into the next world.
Author: keppiehed
Word Count: 2565
A/N: Written for musemuggers, Challenge # 512, Option #1, “San Lorenzo”.
Andrew didn’t know he’d died until a quarter past nine on Monday morning. He’d scalded himself on the first sip of his morning caffè macchiato (extra espresso) and in the pain of his distraction he’d stumbled over the curb. The resulting misstep had put him straight into the path of the oncoming commuter bus, but Andrew hadn’t felt a thing. He didn’t even realize he’d died; he only knew something was wrong because the alarm on his phone was telling him that his conference had started an hour and fifteen minutes ago, and Andrew was never late. He figured he must be dead-or he would be in short order-if he missed the morning meeting with the senior partners.
“You Andy Jameson?”
Andrew blinked and realized he’d been staring at the mangled mess on the road that had been his body. He turned to see a man in stained overalls and a rusty bucket in his hand. “I’m Andrew, yes.”
The man grunted. “Come on, then. We haven’t got all day.”
Andrew followed the man away from the whine of the sirens. “Are you …” he swallowed the word ‘God’, as it seemed obvious that this man was no such deity, “an angel? Or something?”
The man laughed, and then began to choke. He paused to clear his throat and spit a glob of greenish phlegm on the sidewalk. “An angel. Sure. Or something.”
Andrew stopped following him. “Then why should I just follow you? What’s going on?”
“Name’s Horace,” the man said. “I don’t give a hoot what you do. I got a job to do. You can come or not. ”
Andrew watched Horace walk through the crowded city streets. No one seemed to see him. Andrew ran to catch up, his hand-tooled Italian leather loafers pinching his toes as he sprinted. “I get it. I saw this show, once, about this girl who died. She got hit with a toilet seat from a plane, and then she turned into a grim reaper. It was like she was in Limbo. It was a pretty good show; I’m not sure why it got canceled. There were only three seasons. I think it had Mandy Patinkin. He has a really good voice. Did you know that he won a Tony? You wouldn’t think it when you look at him, but that man has an outstanding voice. I saw him once onstage, and he was terrific. Anyway, he was one of the reapers on that show. That’s what they called them: reapers. So, are you going to teach me how to take people’s souls? I’m ready. I mean, I don’t know what I did to deserve this assignment, but I can do this. Do I just touch them, or what? Horace?”
Horace was shaking all over, and it took Andrew a moment to realize that he was laughing. “Grim reapers? Wait ‘til I tell Larry. You guys get dumber every week, I swear.”
Andrew frowned. “Sorry. I ramble a little when I’m nervous. But I am dead, right?”
“Ayup.” Horace adjusted his cap.
“So if I’m not a reaper, what am I supposed to think?” Andrew asked.
Horace made a left turn. “I dunno, kid. Some crazy shit, by the sounds of it.”
“I’m not crazy!” Andrew said. “I’m just trying to figure out what’s happening. This can’t be heaven.”
“Ah, here we are!” Horace slowed his stride as they approached a fountain in the square. “You nearly delayed us, but we made it in time. No worries.”
“No worries about what?” Andrew shouted.
Horace set down his bucket. “You don’t want to get behind schedule, laddie. The docket’s already tighter than the girdle of a Baptist minister’s wife at an all-you-can-eat pancake breakfast.” Horace cackled. “Hah! Baptist minister’s wife ...”
“Am I dreaming?” Andrew sank to the cobblestones, ignoring the certain ruin that would befall his custom Milano-fit three piece Brooks Brothers suit. “I’m dreaming.”
Horace pulled a dented tin from the depths of his overall pocket and wrestled it open. “You ain’t dreaming, kid. Now, watch and learn.” He took a pinch of dust from the tin and blew it into the fountain, then closed the tin and re-pocketed it.
“Watch what? Watch while you break every pollution law in California?” Andrew asked.
Horace ignored him and reached for his bucket. He leaned over the fountain and extended a grubby hand.
In spite of himself, Andrew couldn’t help but wonder about Horace’s actions. It almost looked as if … “You know that stealing coins out of a fountain is petty theft, right? In some places it’s even considered disorderly conduct.”
Horace poked a tongue out of his mouth as he concentrated on the water. “We’re not stealing.”
“That’s right. We’re not steal-”
“Sh!” Horace squinted. “I can’t hear the humming with all your yammering. And I already warned you about the docket. It’s tighter than a-”
“Girdle.” Andrew scowled. “I know, I heard the first time.”
Horace sighed. “Do you want to learn how this is done or not? You can’t see from all the way over there. On your feet, boy. You’re doing the next one.”
Andrew didn’t bother asking. He looked into the sky, but there were no forthcoming tunnels of light to ferry him to his eternal reward. It didn’t seem that he had much choice other than to follow Horace’s example, whatever it was. He stood up and brushed at his trousers.
“Now, you gotta get a feel for it,” Horace said. “You can see some of them right away, but for some you just gotta wait.”
“Some what?” Andrew asked. He stared at the undulating surface of the fountain.
“There’s one. See?” Horace reached into the water and scooped up a coin. He opened his fist.
Andrew nodded. “Yeah. It’s a penny, all right.”
“No! It’s a wish,” Horace said. “There’s another one! Now they’re starting to show.”
Andrew watched Horace pluck a few more coins from the water. He chose mostly pennies, but there was one nickel in the bunch.
“Why don’t you give it a try?” Horace suggested after a moment.
“Because I don’t want a misdemeanor on my record?” Andrew said. “I don’t plan on giving St. Peter any reason to refuse me entrance at the Pearly Gates.”
“St. Peter, my ass. He’s a right old bastard if ever there was one,” Horace said.
“How can you say that?” Andrew asked, shocked.
“Well, he is,” Horace said. “Don’t play poker with him, I’m telling you. He’s a terrible cheat. He’ll rob you blind and do it with a smile.”
Andrew snorted. “Says the man with his arms elbow-deep in children’s wishes.”
Horace grinned. “I knew you’d catch on! Took you long enough. Now, go on. Give it a try for yourself.”
Andrew swallowed. “Fine.” He shrugged off his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves and reached into the water. When he felt his fingers close around a metal circle, he pulled his arm free. “There, okay?”
Horace peered into his palm. “Just when I thought you were coming along … what, did you just grab the nearest quarter?”
Andrew shrugged. “Yeah.”
Horace sighed. “Toss it back. It isn’t ripe yet. You have to listen. I used the claridust to help you focus.”
“Listen?” Andrew asked. He looked at the water. Through the chlorinated clarity he could see the multicolored tiles beneath. The coins scattered the bottom in a haphazard mosaic, the denominations as random as the placement. He listened to the water falling and wondered if that was what the coot meant. He heard someone singing an almost recognizable tune. Andrew turned his head to hear it more clearly. At first it had sounded as if it were coming from down the street, farther away, but now it sounded closer, almost in the water. He took a few steps around the fountain, trying to locate the notes, but there must be some trick. Andrew cocked his head. The sound was coming from under one of the downspouts, of that he was sure. One of the coins directly under a cascade had a purplish glint. He could nearly touch it if he stretched. All he had to do was reach his hand and grab it. He couldn’t explain it, but that coin was definitely humming. Andrew reached out and snatched it. The coin vibrated in his hand.
“That’s the one!” Horace said. “Noisy little bugger, isn’t it? If you couldn’t hear that, I would’ve thought you were deaf.”
Andrew held the penny between his thumb and forefinger. “What’s going on? How is this possible? Coins don’t sing. Or glow.”
Horace shook his bucket, where the coins he’d collected rested. “Of course they don’t. But wishes do. And it’s our job to find the ones that are coming due.”
Andrew’s mouth fell open. He watched Horace reach inside his sweat-stained overalls and scratch himself, and it was just too much to believe. “Are you telling me … are you saying that you’re some kind of fairy? You grant little kids’ wishes? Give me a break!”
“What?” Horace held out the bucket, indicating that Andrew should deposit his penny into that rusty repository, and he began walking again. “What’s so hard to believe? You thought you were a reaper! As if that isn’t a stupid thing to think! Everyone knows Grim works incomitatus. But he’s a helluva guy, you know; don’t let his reputation scare you off. If you ever have a chance to see his bottlecap collection, I highly recommend it. You will not regret it. And he makes a mean cup of lapsang souchong, if you’re ever invited.”
Andrew glanced back at the now-silent fountain. “I’m still confused.”
Horace grunted but didn’t answer.
“Are you going to explain anything?” Andrew asked.
“What’s to explain?” Horace asked. He paused at the corner of Main and San Lorenzo and took a crumpled map from his pocket. “I never know if it’s left or down here ...”
Andrew folded his arms. “I could help if I knew where we were headed. Just sayin’.”
Horace looked up. “It’s just that the docket’s tighter than-”
Andrew held up a hand. “I know. It’s pretty damn tight. I am-used to be-a commodities broker, so I understand time constraints. I could help. My phone has GPS, but I want to know what the deal is here. What is the nature of the docket that you’re so concerned about? That’s all I want to know.”
Horace took a handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped the back of his neck. “Wishes, kid. I thought you got that from the whole fountain thing. It seemed like you finally got the hang of it back there.”
“What do you mean?” Andrew asked. “You don’t expect me to actually believe that you’re a fairy. Come on.”
“Of course not. That’s who grants the wishes.” Horace shook his head. “Don’t you know anything about how the world works? Anything? First you’re on about being Grim himself, of all things, and then you think that you’re a fairy. It’s not right. I blame the internet. Kids don’t read anymore or something, I don’t know. But it’s not right, not knowing that fairies grant wishes. Jesus. What’s the world coming to? Maybe it’s the video games. Grand Theft Auto or whatever it is they do now. Sick, that’s what it is.”
“Just ... can you hold on a minute, there, Grandpa?” Andrew ran a hand through his hair. “I still don’t understand. Are you saying that you take these coins to fairies?”
“Well, sure and begorrah they aren’t going to take themselves, are they?” Horace asked. “What kind of sense does that make?”
Andrew was starting to think that there was no sense in anything he’d done since a quarter past, and perhaps this was a version of hell he’d never chanced to contemplate.
“The thing is, the fairies can’t leave Fae. I wouldn’t think I’d have to explain that, since it’s considered common knowledge, but you’re standing there looking like you been hit with a cane in Congress, so maybe I have to spell it out.” Horace squinted at his map and turned it upside down, then back again. “We collect the wishes that are maturing and take them to the borderlands, and then they are the province of the fairies to deal with. Simple. But I can tell you that time is a problem in Fae, so we’d best not miss our window. Those guys are a little ...” He twirled his finger around his temple.
Andrew couldn’t resist a joke. “Away with the fairies, you mean?”
“Ha. Right you are. So fire up your fancy phone and lead the way. I always forget if it’s a left here or down,” Horace said.
Andrew frowned. “Oh. About that. See, I thought you needed to get to someplace … I don’t know … not insane. Like, somewhere on a human map? So, yeah. Not going to happen. I didn’t realize you were a schizo.”
“I knew you didn’t have the backbone,” Horace said. “I so much as told Larry. Should’ve assigned you to Sandman detail, the wanker.”
Andrew shook his head. “You know you just sound deluded, right? Fairies? Fae? The whole thing is stupid. Wishes don’t even come true. Everyone knows that. Next thing you’ll be telling me there’s a division of people who work on granting the wishes from birthday parties and blowing on eyelashes and dandelion seeds. I don’t know why I’m even still talking to you.”
Horace took a pair of glasses out of his breast pocket. “Right, I’m the stupid one. Fairies grant wishes, but they do them in their own way, in their own time. ‘Be careful what you wish for’ and all that. And you’re the one who’s ignorant about the wish system; the fairies deal direct with the other wishes. They need us for coins because they’re fused to human-rendered metal and the wishes are mired here. I’d explain more, but you’re an ass and it isn’t worth my time. Ah! I knew it! It’s through the corner of San Lorenzo. I’d lose my own head if it weren’t attached.” Horace crammed the map back into his pocket, grabbed his claridust tin and blew a handful into the intersection. The outlines of a door became visible, and Horace gripped a doorknob and turned. “Since I’m deluded, I guess our paths won’t cross again. Give my best to ‘saint’ Peter-if you can find him.” He opened the air and stepped through.
The bustle of the busy street punctuated Andrew’s sudden vulnerability. He was alone, even amidst the midday passersby. No one seemed to see or even jostle him when they moved by on the sidewalk. He looked up and down the street, but there were no familiar faces and no one else waiting to shepherd him to glory. There were no cherubs or winged seraphs, no trumpets or bright lights. It was becoming clear that what he had seen was the most magic he was likely to witness, and he had let it walk into Fae without him.
As the lines on his portal faded, Andrew scrambled to find the doorknob before the door disappeared. His heart thumped in relief as the knob fell into his palm, and Andrew turned his wrist to access the gateway. With eyes open wide, he stepped into the next world.