Lake

I spend my last few hundred bucks on a crisp button-down, black slacks, a tie, and some dress shoes—a good outfit to die in, I think. When I’m ready, I roll the shirtsleeves up to my elbows so whoever finds me will see the tattoo on my forearm: a black and gray partial portrait of eyes crying. In a perfect universe, I’d get to wait out my final moments watching real eyes well with tears. But the Rohypnol will have dulled my powers by now, and I’m not that much of an asshole.

I glance at the bedside clock—6:02 p.m. Only a minute or two now until I go unconscious. I get comfortable on my bed, pull the bag over my head, and tie it snugly around my neck. I breathe in and out, in and out.

The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion. Camus said that. Unfortunately, the only way for a special to be free in this world is to leave it.

I wake gasping and open my eyes to a gray-blue twilight sky.

Did it work? Am I dead?

Cool grass cushions me and tickles my palms, and cicadas chirp in my ears. It’s beautiful here, and the air smells fresh and clean.

But as lovely as this place seems to be, fear swirls in my gut; couldn’t it be a near-death brain hallucination? I sit up, and the breeze chills my dew-soaked back. I take several deep breaths—unrestricted by black plastic—and get to my feet.

The textures are so crisp, the colors muted but clear…

Honk—hoooonk! The ear-splitting sound comes from behind me. On an otherwise empty stretch of road sits a vehicle with a neon sign attached to it reading “WELCOME WAGON!” The car honks again. I glance around, taking in endless grass and just the one street. Looks like my only choice is to approach the vehicle.

The driver’s seat is empty.

“Hello, hello!”

I jump at the sudden shout.

“Welcome to Wish City, your second chance at a special life.” The voice—male—is coming from the door mirror, which has little holes in it signifying a speaker. “Please do not be afraid. You’re safe here, I promise. I’m still working out the details of this whole welcome thing, but please get in the car. It’ll take you into the city. This is a recording.”

“Obviously.” I walk around to the driver’s side and yank on the handle, but it’s locked. Rolling my eyes, I go back to the passenger’s side. Not locked. I get in.

Immediately, the car starts moving—at about ten miles an hour.

“Really?” I turn on the radio, and “Mr. Sandman” by the Chordettes starts playing. I try to change the station, but apparently, this is the only one. Better than nothing, I guess. There are a lot worse oldies out there.

After a minute or two, the car speeds up, turning the grass outside the window into a shadowy green blur. I search the increasing darkness for signs of what’s coming, but I can’t make anything out. There’s just the music. “Sandman, I’m so alone/ Don’t have nobody to call my own/ Please turn on your magic beam/ Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream…”

I drop my head against the headrest and take more deep breaths. I can’t quite shake the feeling that I might not be dead yet. I could still be sleeping inside that bag with the Rohypnol making me have crazy dreams as I run out of air.

I clamp my eyes shut. Breathe. Think. I roll down the window and let that fresh, clean air batter my face and bangs.

I just need to test if I’m dreaming. Doesn’t it go that you should pinch yourself? Fingers trembling, I squeeze the skin on my arm until I can’t take the pain.

Test one passed, I guess. I think I heard somewhere that text is supposed to be scrambled in dreamland, so I glance around and spot a scrolling marquee on the car’s digital clock reading “MR. SANDMAN - THE CHORDETTES.” I look away and back, and the moving letters slowly spell out the same words once again.

These don’t feel like foolproof tests, but I’ll have to go with this being reality, or I’ll lose it. So, if this is the dimension Wish allegedly created for specials—the one I was trying to get to when I put that bag over my head—then the voice in the recording is probably his.

I’ve only heard him speak once, on a video someone took on their phone when the government captured him. He yelled “This is not the end!” over and over until the government goons paid to round up specials tranquilized him. The video didn’t make the mainstream news, of course, but it was all over the internet, and I watched it several times. It was in one of the comments sections that I first heard about this place. I admit, I was expecting something a little more—

Dots of light filter in through the car windows. City lights. It’s full-on nighttime now, but the sky glows pink and blue behind several gleaming skyscrapers. No more grass except for in a few spots, such as along the sidewalk. Other cars use the street now, none of which boast neon signs or drive on their own.

Cool. I thought this Heaven might hold a hilly landscape, meadows filled with flowers, stuff like that. A quaint little town. Anyplace I don’t have to hide what I am is fine by me, but this is much more interesting.

The radio cuts out to static, then: “This car is going to take you to my house because to be honest, I haven’t gotten together a welcome team yet. Sorry. But I’m psyched to meet you. This is still a recording,” Wish adds at a lower volume.

At a red light, I glimpse a sign reading “LIVE NUDE MEN.” Of course, Wish would make a place like that. I bite my lip and grin.

The car stops next to a tall gray curb.

“You’re here,” says Wish. “Please get out now.”

I push open the door. As soon as I’m standing on the sidewalk, the car whizzes away and disappears around the corner, leaving the street empty and quiet. I swallow and push my bangs out of my eyes. So, this is Wish’s house.

It stands three stories tall. Surrounded by a raised yard edged in concrete, it’s a dreamy little cut-out between two brick buildings, both dark and lifeless. The house, in contrast, glows invitingly, lit inside and out. The path leading from the edge of the lawn to the door has diamond-shaped lights embedded on either side of it. I ascend some steps and make my way along the path and up onto the porch. The air smells like honeysuckle.

I ring the doorbell. The blinds are closed, which means I can’t get a peek at Wish yet. In the video I saw of him, he had matted dirty-blond hair and bags under his eyes, but he was still attractive. I remember thinking it was bullshit he got to have such an interesting power and good looks, but I bet he suffered for them. He got caught, anyway.

A soft brushing comes from behind the door before it opens. Golden curls emerge first on a head looking down. Then Wish glances up.

Wow. His curls aren’t matted anymore, that’s for sure. And the skin under his eyes is smooth and blemish-free. He’s like a Michelangelo sculpture brought to life.

He opens the door wider, revealing a smooth, lightly muscled torso between the flaps of a bathrobe and plaid boxer shorts. I slide my gaze lower and find fuzzy pink bunny slippers. Adorable.

I raise a brow.

“Hi,” says Wish. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah. A car brought me here?” I point my thumb behind me where the car used to be. “No driver?”

“Oh!” Wish smiles and stands taller. With his back against the door, he pushes it open and beckons me inside. “Welcome, welcome. I’m Wish, if you didn’t know.”

I step into the house and put my hands into my pockets. “Yeah, I guessed.”

We’re standing in a pleasantly lit foyer/living room. An extremely large, flat-screen TV stands frozen on an animated frame of the Joker from the Batman cartoon. On an orange sectional sofa sits a huge bowl of popcorn and a bunched-up multicolored afghan.

I smirk. “Movie night?”

Wish scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah, kinda, but it can wait. Come sit.” He sets the popcorn bowl on the coffee table and takes a seat with his afghan.

I sit, too, leaving one cushion between us.

“So.” Wish’s eyes pick up the glow from an ornate lamp on the end table. “Tell me about yourself.”

I scan the room, finding wood-paneled walls and shag carpeting. In the far corner, gelatinous pink blobs float in a lava lamp.

“Is this a job interview?” I joke.

“Could be. I run everything.” Arrogance drips from Wish. But I guess he did create an entire dimension by himself. At least, I don’t believe anyone has an ability like his, and if they did, wouldn’t they want to make their own paradise instead of helping out with this one?

“I’m Lake,” I say.

“How old are you, Lake?”

“Does age really matter now that I’m dead?”

Wish cocks his head and stares at me for a few seconds. Then he smiles. “Not really. Tell me anyway. How old are you?”

I hesitate. Sharing personal details used to be a game of risk. Will they figure out I’m different? Will they turn me in? But the government can’t get me here. “I’m twenty-three.”

“Aw, so young!”

Wish’s condescending tone has me biting my tongue to keep it in check.

“Do you want to be older?” Wish asks. “I can change you. Can make you taller, too. You’re like what, 5’6”? Adorable.”

I take a breath through my nose and stare at the Joker freeze-frame for a second. “No, thanks. Did you change yourself? Were you a crusty old man before?” I know he wasn’t, but that’s not the point.

Wish smiles bigger.

I squint.

“I was twenty-seven,” he says. “I shaved off a couple years. Why not?”

“Cool. But I’m perfectly fine the way I am.”

Wish gets a certain gleam in his eye. “Yes, you are.”

Oh Universe, is he flirting with me? Maybe he’s thinking I’m the perfect size to bend over for him. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Men always think that at first.

We have a little staring contest.

Wish blinks before me. “What’s your power?”

It’s a question I’ve never been asked, not even online. “Do you want to guess?”

“No. Just tell me.”

“How about I show you?” I won’t really do it, but it’d be nice to get under Wish’s skin. He’s too beautiful. That statue exterior needs some cracks. I might even like him a little better with anguish in his eyes.

The idea of being able to indulge in my power without the risk of being discovered makes my heart lift. I dig my fingers into my knee.

Wish’s gaze grows grave. “Look, I need to know if whatever it is will interfere with my city. That’s all.”

My urge to ruffle him subsides, but I’m distracted by images of tears creeping down flushed cheeks, and—

I shake my head. I should be nicer to Wish. I should be grateful I had this place to escape to at all. “I can manipulate other people’s emotions. Shouldn’t affect any of your stuff.”

Wish takes a while to respond. His expression is so guarded that I can’t tell if he’s afraid, confused, or something else.

“Interesting,” he says at last. “Does it have to be on purpose?”

I furrow my brow. “Of course.”

He laughs. I get the sense it’s at an inside joke with himself. “So, you decide you want someone to cry, and they cry? Like that?”

“Sort of.” Crying’s my favorite. And I have to do more than want it. I have to will it, picture it. Then it happens.

I bet Wish’s blue eyes would look gorgeous welling with tears. I try to make my mind blank so I don’t do it to him on accident.

I clear my throat. “So. What happens now?”

“I get you someplace to live and a job. Any idea what you’d like to do?”

Before I died, I worked as a pharmacy tech, but I definitely don’t want to do that in my afterlife. “Not really.”

“Okay. You don’t have to answer now, but think about it. I want you to be happy here, Lake. That’s the whole point.”

“What am I supposed to do right now? Do I go off on my own?” The idea of exploring doesn’t sound appealing at the moment. My body isn’t tired, but my mind feels…heavy. And I want. Tears and anguish and hands clawing desperately at me… Once I start thinking about using my power, it’s hard to stop.

“You can stay here for tonight,” Wish says. “I’ve been creating every day for a long time, and I don’t have the energy to do you justice right now.” He touches my shoulder.

I rear back.

“Whoa. I was—” Wish chuckles, but it’s clear he’s nervous and not amused.

I clench my jaw and huff out my nose. “I don’t like to be touched by strangers.” I almost apologize, but why should I? Does dying mean I don’t get boundaries anymore? “You need to ask permission.”

Wish locks eyes with me. He’s so serious, so present in this moment—focused entirely on me—that I understand why people would want to follow him (beyond wanting to get close to his magnificent power, of course). But he should stay away from me. He shouldn’t look at me right now.

“Understood,” he says. “I was going to ask if those were the clothes you died in.”

The memory of crinkly plastic over my head returns in a sickly, visceral wave. I need fresh air, but I force myself to stay seated. I’d rather not have Wish think I can’t handle change or something. That I can’t handle death or the idea of freedom or my power. “Yes, I died in these.”

“Are they clean?”

“I don’t know. I woke up in some grass. It was wet. Dewy?”

“Hmm.” Wish curls a finger under his chin and appraises me. All of a sudden, I’m not dressed in my button-down, slacks, and dress shoes anymore. I’ve got a bathrobe and boxers like Wish’s and fuzzy slippers in the shape of hedgehogs. At least their spines appear to be plush.

Wish’s eyes glitter. “You get hedgehogs because you’re prickly.”

I purse my lips in an effort to keep from scowling, but I can’t help a tightening around my eyes. It seems Wish doesn’t know how to ask for permission before doing anything.

“What do the bunnies mean?” I ask. “You can’t keep it in your pants?”

Wish cackles. “I can’t! But okay, that’s the last thing I’m creating tonight. Back to Batman.” Sans remote, the TV show resumes.

At a loss, I relax against the sofa. It’s comfortable—extremely so. I assumed there wouldn’t be sleep or physical exhaustion after death, but if even Wish himself needs a night off, this place must be similar to… I don’t know what to call it. Life? St. Louis? I want to sleep. I want to unleash my power, but I also want to sleep.

Wish holds the popcorn bowl in front of me. “Want some?”

“No, thanks.”

“If you’re hungry or thirsty, there’s all kinds of stuff in the fridge. Water, wine, beer, cheesecake—”

“I said no.”

Wish gives me a tight smile. “Okay. You’ve been through a lot, so I’ll forgive you for being snappy.”

On the TV screen, Harley Quinn appears and does a running jump into the Joker’s arms.

I wrap my robe tightly around myself.