Micheal Locke could be described in many ways. He is sad or perhaps pathetic and weak. But Milo couldn’t care less about what others thought about him. That’s because today, Milo is the most alone he has felt in his entire life. On a park bench, cold and alone, Milo cried quietly. All he could do was ask, “Why me.”

“‘Why”, what?”

The boy frowned as he turned his head, revealing his puffy eyes to the stranger, who he was sure had not been there recently.

“My best friend, he did something horrible… and now I feel sick.” Milo wiped his eyes into his sleeve.

“What is your name, kid?” The stranger asked, unintentionally sounding more rude than polite.

“Milo,” he said.

“Well, Milo, just because someone has done something horrible does not mean you just up and stop caring for that person.” The stranger felt he could have been projecting onto Milo but thought that he parted sound wisdom.

“I know, but I feel as though part of me has died.” The tears came back, and he hid his eyes wet again.

“And that feeling will never fade.” The man shifted uncomfortably,” Milo, what matters now is what you do with that feeling; use it.”

This struck a nerve. Milo seemed to lose his breath, and the ground seemed less level as his blood froze. The robed stranger vanished, but not without a trace. A single calling card lay next to him, and it read “Magical Consultation and Collaborations: William V. Hawkshaw Master Magician.”

The robed stranger had low expectations for Milo, but he would keep tabs on him just in case.

Milo wandered after a time through the dusk-fallen upstate town as though in a dream. He walked downtown, observing things he assumed most college students bar hopping would not. This month, the small building that served as the town’s museum had changed the window display. It was about trees or something only a few people would pay for admission. His eyes drifted from the museum’s front to across the street where the best bar in town stood. Red brickwork trimmed with a dark green. But the only thing he paid mind to was five pentagrams at the base of the wall, each roughly four feet apart.

All the years downtown, and it was his first time noticing, he decided to drink here as if the establishment earned it; rather than use the front entrance, he followed the wall right, through the back patio, and to the rear bar inside. Where the barista was occupied with the clear freshman college girls ordering various brightly colored drinks that looked like something you see on television or online. She smiled at the last girl ordering, finishing her drink with a practiced speed, serving her glass with a discreetly added phone number.

“Hey man, what can I getcha?” she asked, diverting her attention to Milo.

“Black Russian,” he mumbled, sliding his cards toward her. Drink in hand, Milo found a sequestered booth in the back of the room. After settling in, finally pulling out the calling card he received, he addressed the matter at hand.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“What the fuck was that?” He asked himself, maybe a bit louder than intended. It was usually quiet on Thursday, and it was more or less empty here. He went over the event from the park over and over again. That man was not there initially. He wasn’t, he was sure. But explaining his sudden appearance and disappearance was more difficult, and the fact he calls himself a magician was doing little to help.

“Excuse me?”

Milo returned to reality and looked up to see a tall blonde woman who was at least 10 years his senior dressed in slacks and a button-down. “May I sit with you?” Her voice sounded airy and correct as if that was an accent.

“Yea, by all means,” he said before taking the first sip of his drink. He noticed the ice had already begun to melt; he must have been spiraling longer than he had thought. “Umm.. if I may, who are you?”

“My name is Niesha Banks, but if you would, Miss Banks.” she replied, sliding into the booth opposite Milo.” you looked troubled.”

“So obvious?” Milo said sarcastically, sipping his slightly watered-down drink.” I feel like shit today. That’s why I’m here treating a panic attack.”

“Looks to me you are hiding in a drink,” she smiled with a slight tilt of her head,” we all cope differently.”

“Well, you’re right,” he could feel his face getting red; he slid down in his seat a bit,” everyone copes differently.” Taking another drink, he looked at the woman, hoping she might vanish too.

“Well, are you not going to ask why I am here?” Miss Banks asked with polite expectancy.

Milo paused, drained his glass, and asked,” Miss Banks, what brings you here this evening?”

“To speak with you on behalf of my employer, of course,” she said. Milo, of course, laughed.

“Your employer?” asked Milo incredulously; he was having a bad day, and Miss Banks was not helping. A thought ran across his mind, what if he is utterly delusional and he just hasn’t taken his medication today? “Who IS your employer?”

“Mr. Hawkshaw, of course.” learning forward and displaying a similar calling card.” would you like a job, Micheal?”

At the sight of the card on the table, the hairs on the back of his head stood on end, perhaps his delusions were in another league entirely. He read about how people with diagnosed schizophrenia could have complicated hallucinations of varying intensity. This revelation nearly pushed him over the edge, like a glass on the verge of falling off the counter.

“Milo, I am no delusion. You are not insane. This is very real, and I can prove it,” she said, almost like she read his mind,” I am a magician.”

“No such thing,” Milo mustered. He stood up, walked onto the patio, and leaned against the railing. And Miss Banks had followed.

“Would you like a smoke?” Miss Banks asked, pulling out a silver case, removing a single black cigarette, putting it to her lips, and handing another to Milo. He could smell the clove in it. Miss Banks snapped her fingers, and a small blue fire manifested on the tip of her index. Lighting her cigarette and his.

“Ok, you have my attention,” he said before dragging deeply on his cigarette and taking a deep breath. “What do you want with me?”

“I only know that he wants you to work for him,” she sighed, “Mr. Hawkshaw is a recluse and a successful one at that. Which is why he keeps me in his employ; he does not like to speak to anyone directly. I did not even hear from him about you.”

Confused, Milo asked, “I thought you were here on his behalf? If he didn’t say anything to you, who did?”

“That is my magic,” she said, “Which is why I serve as his secretary.”

“Well, that’s insane.”

“I suppose it is,” another drag, and she asked,” Down the rabbit hole?”

“Why not,” Milo replied with exasperation.

“9 am tomorrow at the used book store on Maine. You will find an office in the back, knock and enter. You might talk with Mr. Hawkshaw himself,” she said, stepping away, “it was a pleasure meeting you.” She left Milo to finish his melted cocktail ice and gross cigarette.