I never quite understood the doctrine of the Angel’s creation of mankind. Not the literal interpretation—that was obviously false—but, rather, the matter of the Angel’s motives. The Angel supposedly did this out of love for us. But, if He did, why leave us forever in need of our Maker? Why make a creature that could not truly flourish independently of its creator? I could understand it if He viewed us as potential pests who needed a weakness to keep us in our place, but that didn’t strike me as particularly “loving”. I suppose only the Angel knew the answer to that mystery—assuming there even was an answer. Perhaps, like many artists, the Godhead had created creation simply to create. Could God do something without a reason? These were the kinds of questions that got kid-me sent to the Quiet Corner in elementary and middle school.

Thankfully, my afterlife management was turning out swimmingly. One of the dopplegenneths had a brilliant idea; it simplified matters immensely. So far, we’d been going through the stressful, time-intensive process of granting the ghosts’ wishes one by one, but then Third Me suggested we make a wishing fountain. The fountain would produce a magic potion, and if you drank it—or even so much as touched it—it would grant your wish. Neat, huh?

We’d all thought so.

Beyond a mirror-like sheen, the fountain’s water had no set color. Instead, it reflected the wishes of whomever happened to be staring at it. That bit was my idea, and all of me agreed that it was an especially nice touch.

With the fountain, there was no more roving around the scene like a milkman making his morning deliveries. The ghosts appeared, the me nearest to the ghost would escort them there, the ghost would sipped from its waters, and then their dreams came true. Easy-peasy.

It also made for the best reality show this side of anywhere, which was what I—and not any other of me—was currently doing: watching people living the dream. Thankfully, the fountain was pretty big, so there was no need to push or shove. So far, we’d granted the hearts’ desires of about two dozen ghosts so far, not counting Andalon or myselves—or, for that matter, Kreston.

The kid-turned-kitsune had scampered in through the gateway sometime between my third and fourth dopplegennething. Apparently, my body had recommended he come.

It was a wise decision. Kreston enjoyed watching the wish-granting almost as much as Andalon had.

We’d installed the fountain near the edge of a grove of broad oak trees. Andalon, Kreston, and I sat in comfort in the shade of one of the oaks. It made for the perfect place to ghost-watch. Kreston removed the transformation mask before approaching the fountain. He wore the same clothes as Chain had in Masks—turquoise breeches, and a matching tunic.

As the boy walked up to the fountain, the water reflected images of what I could only assume were his parents. They looked back at him with loving expressions on their faces, smiling at one another almost as much as they did at their son. Yet nothing happened when he drank from it.

Odd.

I leaned over to Andalon—by now, she’d long since shed her fox ears and fox tail. “Why isn’t it doing anything?”

“I think…” Andalon gave me a forlorn look. “I think he wants real people.” She shook her head. “Wyrmehs can’t make real people.”

“Why not?”

“It’s super hard.”

The grass rustled as Kreston walked back over to us, though on yellow kitsune paws instead of human feet. There was a sadness in his russet fox eyes, and in the way he held his tails down low. But his ears perked up as soon as he realized we’d noticed him.

“What are you guys talking about?”

“Erm…” I pursed my lips. “Uh…”

Andalon shot me a nervous look.

Fortunately, a loud exclamation from over by the fountain saved me just in the nick of time.

“Oh boy oh boy!” The speaker rubbed his hands together. “So, this is the magic wish fountain?”

The speaker was a scrawny, lanky-looking fellow with big hands, narrow arms and thick glasses. He spoke with a pronounced lisp, probably because of the noticeable gap between his two front teeth.

“Yes, Reggie,” Third Me said.

Or was it Fourth?

Well, whichever dopplegenneth it was, he’d escorted Reggie to the fountain, explaining the afterlife do’s and don’ts along the way.

Kreston sat up on his haunches as Andalon knelt on the grass beside him. “What do you think he’s gonna turn into?” He asked.

“Andalon does not know,” she said, “but Andalon very really muchly wants to find out!”

One of the perks of our seating location was that it left us far enough away from the fountain for the reflections it showed the ghosts to get washed out by the play of the sunlight at that particular angle. It made the process that much more interesting and suspenseful.

“Do you have a cup?” Reggie asked Third-or-Fourth⁠ Me.

It couldn’t have been Fifth Me, though; Fifth Me was busy setting up the community garden.

“You can just splash it on your face, that’s all it takes.”

“Yeah, but could I have a cup?” Reggy asked. He snorted involuntarily. “Using my hands would be unsanitary.”

Before the other me could respond, I imagined a cup into existence right in Reggie’s hand.

Both of them said thanks, and I waved in acknowledgement.

“Down the hatch,” Reggie said, drinking the enchanted water.

Immediately, the scrawny man’s body exploded out from his clothes, taking on a form both strong and tall, with the kind of bulging, chiseled physique that would have even a comic book superhero green with envy—but they didn’t stop there.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Kreston waggled his tails. “I get it!” He nodded excitedly. “He’s a superhero!”

The kitsune-kid was absolutely right. The nerd gave way to the superhuman within: seven feet tall, with a stalwart chin and long, blond hair that spilled down his head like the barbarians of the ancient north, with not just one but two pairs of hulking arms. All of it was wrapped in spandex; red, with white highlights—a white circle on his chest, along with bands around his waist and his arms.

“Wow,” he said, speaking in a radiant, resonant, man’s man of a voice—the kind of voice that would make a lady swoon, and convince a gentleman to buy a car.

He raised an arm skyward and shouted: “Excelsior!”

He blasted into the sky, sending a sonic-boom rippling across the grass.

Andalon and Kreston craned their heads back as they watched Super-Reggie soar through the clouds. Anatole swerved in a banking curve and followed after him. Eunice—Spence’s dragon companion—growled in alarm as the superhero zoomed by. She folded in her wings and dove down, out of Reggie’s way.

Watching Kreston gaze at Reggie gave me an idea.

Closing my eyes, I outstretched my hand—palm up—and visualized.

My fingers clasped around layers of smooth wood, lacquered and sanded.

I opened my eyes.

Yes! Score one for Howle!

“Kreston?” I said, catching the kitsune’s attention.

He started turning his head, only to whip his whole body around, when he saw what was in my hands: a bouquet of masks, All from Masks of Truth.

“No way…” he said, in awe.

Rearing up on his hind legs, Kreston reached for his snout with a paw. His kitsune form unraveled as he removed his transformation mask and came to stand on human feet once more, clothed in turquoise, as before. He put the kitsune mask on his back, where it promptly vanished into hammerspace.

“Take them,” I said, handing the masks to him.

He looked at me with doubt. “Can I?”

I nodded. “Don’t worry about it. It’s my pleasure.”

He got to work experimenting with them.

Rising to her feet, Andalon walked over to Kreston and tapped him on the back. “Can I use ‘em too, Kres-Kres?”

“Sure!” Nodding, Kreston pulled some masks out of the hammerspace on his back.

I was ready to sit back and watch when, off the distance, I heard a familiar refrain.

“Mr. Genneth, here’s someone new!”

Here we go again.

Turning, I saw a copy of Andalon approaching, bearing a portly ghost still clad in his hospital gown—a tubby east-coast bubba, if I ever saw one. His stubble-dusted jaw bent in a confused scowl. The Andalon guiding the ghost vanished into mist as he approached us.

Suddenly, he blinked, and staggered about, shooting double takes at Andalon, Kreston and I, and at the space where the other Andalon had been.

“What the Hell is this?” he grumbled.

He stared at Andalon, and then at his hand, and then back to her, where his gaze stuck like glue.

One of the other dopplegenneths moved to intercept, but I stood up and waved my hand, signaling that I’d take care of it. This guy just didn’t smell right. It was a gut instinct. When you spend your career working with people on a one-on-one basis, you tend to develop an intuition for people’s personality types.

“Well,” I said, adjusting my lucky bow-tie, “welcome to the afterlife!”

Kreston clenched his fists. “Make some confetti!”

Nodding, I conjured a splash of confetti and glitter with a wave of my hand.

“Now…” The man’s eyebrows flattened. “What kind of bullshit is this?”

I stuck out my arm, inviting a handshake, but the ghost left me hanging, and kept his distance.

“I’m, uh… “ I fidgeted with my bow-tie, squeezing it between my thumb and forefinger. “I’m Dr. Genneth Howle.”

“Never heard of ya.”

“I… hm…” I crossed my arms. “I guess you could call me your afterlife coordinator.”

His flattened brow went flatter still. “What is this cockamamie place?”

“I didn’t get your name, sir,”

“O’Houlighan,” he said, staring at me. “Joe-Bob O’Houlighan. You can call me JB. Now,” he cleared his throat, “could ya answer my damn question?”

I put on the most gracious manner I could find. “Well, Mr. O’Houlighan…” I clasped my hands together, “I’m afraid you’ve died.”

JB didn’t offer any protestations in response. Instead, his expression fell, broken by shock. Scowling, he muttered under his breath while staring at his hands.

“Shit…”

I sighed in sympathy. “I know things are crazy.” I nodded. “But, as I’ve only recently learned… death isn’t quite the end it was chalked up to be. In fact—”

“—She did it,” Joe-Bob said. “She actually fuckin’ did it.”

“Who?” I cocked my head, perplexed.

“That goddamn bitch of a nurse,” he growled. “She went and killed me!”

Say what now?

“A nurse killed you?!” I was aghast.

Joe-Bob snorted. “Angel’s honest truth.” He made the Bondsign. “I told that woman to gimme the fuckin’ Heelibectin, but she didn’t.” He glowered. “You know what she did to me?” He thrusted an arm into the air. “She tied me up like a hog and left me there to die.” He shook his arm with fury.

“H-Heeli…” my voice trailed off.

“And she was foul, man,” he said. “An ugly fuckin’ midget with a mouth like a sewer. No respect. Didn’t know her place.”

And now the pieces were coming together.

Fudge…

I’d heard from Nurse Hachiko about one patient so rebarbative that Jess Kaylin had had to keelhaul him just to keep him in line.

Briefly, I pulled off my glasses and rubbed my eyes.

“Is there somethin’ wrong with you?” Joe-Bob demanded.

Sighing, I put my glasses back on. “No, JB, there—”

But then he looked up, gaze narrowing. He stuck out his hand at me. “—Shut up,” he said, nonchalantly. “Is…” his eyes widened, “Is that a fuckin’ dragon?”

Overhead, Eunice breathed out a gout of flame.

“Yes.” I nodded. “Yes it is.” Outside of internet chat fora, I did not get many opportunities to be smug. This was a rarity, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

And not only that…

Reggie spiraled around Eunice’s flame in a tight, corkscrew path.

Boy, they really were having the time of their lives.

One of the darkest aspects of depression was the way it drew clouds over the rest of a person’s life, making moments of pride and joy into ones of listlessness, guilt, and misery. Sometimes, an emergency happiness intervention was needed to kick people out of their funk. Alas, life rarely provided that for us—which made it all the more satisfying that I now had the ability to change things for the better.

I smiled.

But JB did not.

It was a central doctrine of psychotherapy that the patients had to be the one to discover what they needed to change within themselves. You could not point it out to them, nor pronounce judgments on their behavior. You did not get to make demands. I couldn’t tell a gambling addict that his marriage was going to fall apart if he couldn’t get his gambling under control. I couldn’t deny sessions to a housewife who refused to leave her abusive husband. No.

I had to guide them.

“Why’d that little shit up there get a dragon, and not me?” Joe-Bob grunted. “I’m the one who got murdered, dammit—and while y’all had me in a dress like some kinda faggot!” He spat onto the grass.

In practice, the aforementioned central doctrine meant that any judgments we had made about our patients had to wait for tea time with our colleagues, or perhaps lunch in the Galleria beneath the Central Courtyard.

Suddenly, JB yelled and staggered back, pointing fearfully at something behind me.

By the time I turned around, I only caught the tail end of the seconds-long span of time it took for the transformation masks to do their thing.

Clearly, Andalon had donned Kurama’s mask; that was why she was currently a little blue kitsune puppy, with white tips on her ears and tail.

She sat back on her haunches. “Mr. Genneth, look!” She waved at me with her paws. Meanwhile, Kreston had turned into a sprightly brown tanuki—the Munine raccoon-dog that, according to legend, loved to fool humans by turning themselves or inanimate objects into various different things.

I turned back to face JB.

“What the fuck happened to them?” he demanded, with a tremulous voice.

I took a very deep breath, and—grabbing whatever impartiality I could—I put on a smile. Fortunately, it wasn’t entirely disingenuous. In here, unlike out in meatspace, I could do more than merely attempt to guide people to self-discover. Here, I could guid people to a magical fountain that would make all their dreams come true.

It was the psychotherapeutic equivalent of a cheat code, and I had no qualms about using it.

“Actually,” I said, smirking, “I’m glad you asked…”

Joe-Bob’s eyes widened with my every word.

In hindsight, this turned out to be a very, very bad idea.