JO BACKTRACKED THROUGH the hospital. She made a right out of the door and started for a central hub. On her way, she passed one particularly frazzled, doe-eyed nurse who looked familiar.

It stopped Jo in her tracks, looking back at the woman clutching a tablet and muttering to herself the list of test results that were displayed in cold black and white. Her head swiveled as she watched the woman fuss with her hair, stopping in front of Mr. Keller’s door, tapping at the screen in frustration. The nurse had no idea that the people who would ensure her wish would come true were standing right next to her.

Jo started moving again.

She was a member of the Society of Wishes. She did not change the future and she did not own the past. She was a spectator to both and a vessel for the whims of the living. She was beyond reality, given mere moments to touch it, only if she was granted the time.

Drawing her wrist forward, Jo stopped in front of an office by the nurse’s station. It was certainly the hub of operations and the office must belong to someone important, given the number of letters engraved after the name on the door. Jo looked at her time.

She had one hour.

Precious little moments to change the Severity of Exchange, to right her wrong.

More than enough, she assured herself. It’ll be more than enough.

Jo tapped the watch and the world blinked into existence. The sterile smell of ozone mixed with the chemical scent of hand sanitizer layered atop the metallic tang of stainless steel. The bustle of the hospital was palpable to her, but only for a moment. She heard phones ringing and pagers beeping—a bygone technology still clinging to the medical field. She heard the hushed whispers and somber conversations as though they were all right next to her.

But only for a moment.

She pressed the strip of smart fabric on her wrist again, blinking out of existence the moment the door was opened. A nurse had seen her, one who was walking over to the door, but only for a blink. The man poked his head in the room, looking around, but saw no one.

Jo stood before him, an invisible entity, waiting for him to abandon his search. With a shake of his head, the nurse closed the door.

“What’s up?” Jo heard someone ask outside.

“Nothing, thought I saw. . . I don’t know. I’ve been at this too long today.” The man laughed softly, returning to his post. “Doesn’t matter.”

Jo turned to the computer, fumbling with the USB in her pocket. They had hours until Mr. Keller was transferred. She had one hour of time left—seconds less, now that she’d opened the door. She could do this.

Or. . . not.

Jo crouched down, frantically looking around the small box that served as the main terminal of the computer. She even tapped into time for a whole minute to move it around because she couldn’t believe her eyes.

There wasn’t a USB port. Jo cursed out loud. She should’ve expected this to happen. It was a fairly antiquated technology and most computers came with free cloud storage out of the box. A hospital no doubt backed up all their records to a shared server—

A new option clicked in her mind. While still in time, Jo opened the door and then tapped her fabric—down to an hour, even. She’d have to conserve as much time as possible while she found that server room.

Jo turned in the hallway, reading all the various signs. Of course, there weren’t any IT-oriented labels. They were all driven to functional areas of the hospital.

“Okay, where would you be?” she mumbled to herself. Jo tried to think logically—the hospital was likely to have their own server racks for keeping at least some data in-house. She was only vaguely familiar with the various security protocols required of medical facilities. There had to have been a point where it was easier for a hospital to build out for some of their needs than pay someone else to. . . right? And those terminals would be certain to have a physical port, as an extra failsafe, if nothing else.

She took a deep breath. She may only have an hour left. . . But there were still hours until the man would be transferred. She could search the hospital top to bottom if she needed to.

Or maybe she didn’t need to.

Jo stepped across the hall to stand before a door—an unassuming supply closet. She held out her hand, poising her fingers just above the door handle and believed. The Door appeared before her; Jo kept a very clear image of where she needed to go in her head. She stared at the keypad, trying to erase all other thoughts and, just like the first time, the alphanumeric numbers suddenly arranged themselves into a sequence that her fingers were all too eager to press.

She was pulled through, appearing in a dark room of server racks with little else. Jo turned in place as the Door closed, but she didn’t even catch a glimpse of steel; it had already transformed into the same off-white color the rest of the hospital was painted in. Still, Jo tapped into time, opening the door and glancing out.

Yes, she was in the same hospital. Satisfied with herself, Jo flicked on the light to the room, and quickly set to work.

The pressure of time weighed on her as she set out finding some USB port on the terminal. Her watch was like a handcuff around her wrist, tying her to the fear of failure—to the unknown punishment that seemed to somber every member of the Society without explanation. Jo let out an audible sigh of relief when she finally found the port.

She opened a command prompt on the computer and entered her first query. The script ran like a dream. Everything, finally, was going according to plan.

Jo tapped away on the keyboard, almost happily. Nurse on record would get credit for attempting an experimental treatment—a treatment that Jo would make sure was buried in databases across the nation—both private and public—from past doctors and researchers. It would be obscure enough to be overlooked by many, and those behind the information would have met mysterious ill fates. But hopefully, no one would care once the patient was cured and the vaccine was out. The nurse might get some flack for not obtaining the proper sign-offs first. . . but Jo could only hope that saving the patient’s life would earn her some slack.

Her time ticked by far too quickly, and finesse soon became a luxury she could no longer afford.

She went about her business with the determination of a fisherman hunting the white whale. Her work was sloppy, and she knew it. But even if it could be traced back to this computer, so what? The fingerprints on the keyboard belonged to no one; there was no one to hunt down. Plus, considering the amount of legwork they were being forced to accomplish, the least Snow could do was tidy up the loose ends when he knotted his side of things.

Jo stilled as she heard voices outside the door. Her finger hovered over her watch. But they passed, and she resumed her work.

Just a little bit more. A little bit of this here, that there, one more record of dots to connect. Jo didn’t know if it was enough, but there was a distinct feeling of rightness to her actions—a sensation she had never felt before. Perhaps, on some magical level, she was sensing the gap in the Severity of Exchange closing. Or perhaps it was the irreplaceable feeling of knowing she was useful—of being proven right.

Either way, Jo took one more glance at the computer, deciding she’d done enough, and pulled her USB. She spent a minute trying to get everything back just as she found it, but she was certain she couldn’t. It didn’t matter anyway, Jo told herself. Whatever she did, in mere hours when Snow got his hands on it, this would be no more. He’d eat an entire universe of possibility and change the fabric of reality.

Jo opened the door and slipped out of time in one motion.

She backtracked, finding the signs now useful to getting where she wanted to go, through the corridors to the hospital room. Jo kept her eyes open for the nurse she had assumed to be behind the wish. But wherever the woman was, her business had taken her far from Mr. Keller’s room.

Jo slipped through the open door, startled by a man in scrubs leaning against the wall. Even in spite of the mint green, bland hospital uniform, he moved like water—fluid, barely contained by the plebeian garb. Eslar looked to her, saying nothing.

She merely nodded.

He did the same, pulling out his watch. He activated it with a brush of his finger, the runes flaring magically underneath the pad of his thumb. He looked no different to her, but the way he moved was different. His actions suddenly seemed weighted with a gravity they didn’t previously possess.

Eslar, like her, wasted no time. He leaned forward and laid his hands on the prone man in the hospital bed. For a long moment, nothing happened, and Jo wondered if she was watching with such rapt attention for no reason. But slowly, Eslar’s hands changed.

Vine-like tendrils working their way up under his flesh, shimmering with raw magic, the elf’s usually russet skin changed to a brilliant viridian hue. It seeped up his forearms, highlighting the tendons of his long fingers and creeping toward his elbows. Jo couldn’t contain a gasp, but if Eslar heard her, he made no motion.

The elf’s eyes glowed with their own soft, emerald light, gaze intent as he stared down at the ward he was pouring so much effort into curing. There was an aura about him, one of wonder, of birth, of infinite possibility Jo barely understood. Like a firefly, the magic burned brightly with purpose, and then extinguished.

Mr. Keller’s eyes fluttered open. “Who. . .”

Eslar said nothing, quickly disappearing on the other side of the curtain. From Jo’s vantage, she could see him pressing the nurse call button. Everything after that happened like the events of a movie on a distant sliver screen, Jo standing trapped behind the veil of the fourth wall.

The same nurse she’d seen before returned to the room. The woman had a confused, elated, ecstatic exchange with Mr. Keller. Vitals were checked, and the words “full recovery” were used. Other nurses rushed in to check the work; a commotion was building, muffled and distant from Jo’s vantage just outside of reality.

“We should go.” Eslar’s voice was loud compared to the rest of the room.

“We should,” Jo agreed. “Go home.”

“Do you truly think of it as home, now?” Eslar asked, with genuine curiosity in his voice.

“I do,” she admitted, looking up at the elf. He was still wearing scrubs, clothing that would no doubt melt back into his normal garb the moment they re-entered the mansion. Green still glittered under his flesh, up to the sleeves of his shirt, and protruded like veins above his collar. He still had that lingering glow to his eyes.

There was nothing about him that was human.

But he was part of her family—her magic family.

“Then let us go, Jo.”

They departed together, hacker and healer, human and elf, walking against the commotion of the room and the steadily growing crowd, back to a nondescript supply closet. Eslar held out a hand and a familiar door appeared, the code to which Jo knew magically with only a glance.

The door opened, and the familiar smell of the briefing room greeted them.