After Chayton finished her story, Jesse lifted up the lid of the desk next to her and dug through the contents, tossing some colored pencils onto the fire. Then with a cry of triumph, she pulled out a brown bottle with the words, "Wishes Brew" and "133.2 proof" on its label. "Hey, look what I found."

"Don't drink that!" Steven cried rushing forward and taking it from her hands. "That stuff is dangerous. Let me tell you the story..."

And while he told his tale, he quietly slipped the bottle into his backpack.

WISHES BREW

By @StevenBrandt

George had come into the convenience store planning to buy a gift to make the woman he loved feel better--a strawberry milk and a bag of trail mix, maybe. He had a song for her too. Well. He had a sequence of chords.

Love, sunshine, and music had always been enough for George, who made a living playing his guitar for donations. But now, his love faced the loss of a business she'd spent decades building. He knew his gifts wouldn't be enough.

Reflected in the glass of the refrigerator case, he saw his tattered jeans, the red-haired skull on his Grateful Dead t-shirt, and a little of the guitar case on his back--but the frost blurred away his face as if he were inadequate. Unimportant.

To the side of his reflection he noticed a door on the back wall standing open. He walked over and peered inside. A staircase led downward, lit with wax candles mounted in iron holders on the wall. What could be down there?

George glanced around. No one was watching, so he slipped through the door, and quietly made his way down. He told himself he was curious, that he wouldn't steal anything. Probably.

The room at the bottom contained row after row of liqueur bottles. On the right side of the staircase, nestled between the shelves, was a wooden desk covered with parchment, quills, and an open ink bottle. An iron-shuttered window loomed behind the desk. He frowned. What kind of place was this?

He shivered. It was a cold place, that's what it was.

He picked up a candle and walked to the desk. The parchment appeared to be a diploma of some kind, though he couldn't recognize the language. Perhaps this was a wine-making school, and this was what they gave to students who graduated? But why wasn't it in English?

Next, he walked over to the window, slid the bolt and opened it a crack. A wave of scorching heat spilled through. At once, he closed the shutter. Of course, it was a furnace and not a window. This was a basement after all.

That didn't make much sense either, though. Alcohol needed to be chilled, didn't it?

Lifting his candle high, George strode through the rows of shelves until he found one layered in dust. Whatever was being stored here, no one had paid attention to it in years. One bottle near the bottom shelf caught his eye and he slid it out and wiped the dust away.

The words "Wishes Brew, 133.2 proof" were written in fiery orange letters on a black label. A picture of a pointy witch hat was at the top, and two cats with glowing eyes on the bottom.

George smiled. This would be the ideal drink for Lara, who liked cats. Especially, if no one noticed it was gone and he didn't have to pay for it. He unscrewed the top. No sense bringing it home to Lara without tasting it first. The scent of chocolate filled the air. The flavor reminded him of a Kahlua milkshake he'd had a birthday or two ago. Apparently, this beverage was a bit of trick or treat. He smiled at the joke.

The air blurred before him, shimmering blue and green. He rubbed his eyes as the mysterious light grew brighter, coiled, uncoiled, and spun itself into a humanoid shape.

When his sight cleared, a bald, shirtless man stood before him, wrapped in serpent-like ribbons of light. He bowed, dispelling the luminous vapor. "What is your wish?"

George laughed. "You're a genie?"

The bald man straightened. A slight, cherubic smile lit his face, but he didn't answer.

George looked again at the bottle.

"Wouldn't it make more sense to have an Arabian theme for your little glass house?" George asked.

The genie shrugged. "I'm not Arabian. Besides, October thirty-first is in six days, and I've always been fond of trick or treat."

That got George's attention. "Does that mean if I wish for something it won't turn out the way I expect?"

"Only if you think you can sneak out without paying." The bald man looked pointedly at the bottle.

"Ah," George answered. He fished in his pocket and found his twenty. "Is this enough?"

The bald man shook his head. "I don't want money. I want the guitar."

The guitar was the only thing George had in the world.

"The wish I want to make is for my girlfriend, Lara. She has a craft store, Lara's Crafts, it's a play on words referring to a--never mind. Anyway, her store is really popular, but she's got some kind of legal problem I don't understand. I was hoping I could wish it away."

The bald man pursed his lips. "Do you love her?"

"With all my soul."

A grin lit the bald man's face. "Then wish to become an accomplished lawyer, and you can ride in with your pen and save her."

Lawyer? George was pretty sure he wouldn't like that profession. "Can't I just wish her problem away?"

The bald man wagged a finger at him. "You can only wish to change yourself, nothing else."

George slipped the bottle into his coat pocket and unstrapped the guitar case from his back.

"I suppose," George said, "that if I'm a lawyer, I'll have lots of money and can buy another guitar?"

"Of course."

George held out the guitar. The bald man took it and turned to go.

"Hey!"

"This way, George," the bald man beckoned with his finger. "And I'll give you your pen."

The bald man led George to the desk, where he'd seen the diploma earlier.

"Take the quill and sign there," the bald man said.

"Why do I need to do that?"

"It's how the magic works. Every lawyer needs a diploma."

George picked up the quill and dipped it in the ink. He'd practiced calligraphy once or twice when he was in high school art class. Because of that, he managed to sign without making a single blot.

"Very good," the bald man said.

George blinked.

The bald man now wore George's Grateful Dead t-shirt and blue jeans, and the guitar was in his hands. With a strum and a flourish, he played the first few chords from the song for Lara that George had been working on.

Wondering if the genie had left him naked, George glanced down at himself and was surprised to see that he wore an expensive suit. He could even remember buying it after he won that big lawsuit a year ago.

"Be seeing you, George," the bald man said. He turned and dashed up the stairs.

George took the diploma and raced after him. When he emerged from the door at the top of the stairs, the bald man was gone.

***

Sixteen years later, George wandered into the convenience store. He'd done it frequently since the day he'd sold his guitar, but he'd never found the secret door again. A decade ago, he'd decided on only coming in six days before Halloween, the anniversary of that fateful day.

"Good evening, sir," the clerk said with a deferential bow of his head.

People did that for well-dressed lawyers. It was better than the worried stares he got when he was a street musician, but small consolation.

George walked to the back and stood clutching his briefcase and staring at the refrigerator. He'd stand and stare for a few minutes, like always, waiting for the door to appear. It never did.

What was the use?

He turned to go--and he saw it.

Exactly the way it had been sixteen years ago, slightly ajar in the corner of the store. He glanced around. As before, no one was watching. He slipped inside, and rummaged in his pockets. With a sigh of relief, he found his notes on genies. He put the notebook back, grabbed a candle, and hurried down the stairs.

He shivered. It was as cold in the basement as he'd remembered.

Things should go better this time. He had sixteen years of research, as well as experience with reasoning and law. The last time he'd confronted the genie he'd been young and uneducated--foolish really.

Of course, there were uncertainties. None of the stories about genies mentioned anything about a mysterious room or iron-shuttered furnaces that looked like windows.

Before him was the desk, the same as it was sixteen years ago, except his diploma wasn't on it. That piece of parchment was carefully stored in the briefcase. He set the case on the desk, undid the catches, and drew out the parchment as well as the quill he'd been given the last time. His hands shook as he consulted the notes.

This genie could be handled if he just kept his wits about him. Part of him expected the mysterious being to reappear at any moment, but after a full minute it still hadn't shown.

He took a few deep breaths, got his papers together under one arm, and the candle in his other. Where was the shelf with the Wishes Brew? He'd finished drinking the old bottle a decade ago. Rubbing it hadn't brought the genie back, neither had sipping it.

After a few minutes, he found the place he was looking for. It was like the day he'd left; he could even see his own tracks in the dust. He reached down and lifted the next bottle from the same shelf. He rubbed his hand across the label. Like the other one, it said Wishes Brew. He unscrewed the lid, but his stomach lurched, and he screwed it back on.

"I wish I had a drink to get up the nerve to take a drink," he joked nervously to himself.

Unsteadily, he wandered back to the desk, sat down and collected his thoughts. When he was ready, he unscrewed the cap and took a sip.

He laughed. It tasted better than he remembered, a candy store full of chocolate, caramel, and mint swirled together like some extraordinarily potent Bailey's Irish Creme.

Lara hadn't enjoyed it much, just as she hadn't enjoyed the lawyer version of George. She did appreciate the legal help, though.

His vision blurred, blue and green light coiled up from the ground. He hadn't been paying close attention the last time, he'd been too confused. Certainly, these special effects didn't agree with what he'd read in the Quran. That book said that a Jinn was a smokeless fire; this was a fireless smoke.

Sixteen years ago he'd seen misty lights, moving snake-like through the air. This time, he noticed they were, in truth, serpents with small dark eyes and faint flicking tongues.

When the mist cleared, the bald man stood before him. The genie. The man who'd called himself Conrad, but without the blood and bruises he'd received in the car accident that had put him in a coma a week ago.

"Hey, George," Conrad said. "Sorry about stealing your girl."

Shortly after George had saved Lara's business, Conrad had walked into Lara's life with a guitar and a song. She'd fallen in love with him at once. Even now, she wept by his bedside in Mercy Hospital where she visited every day. As always, George had been there to comfort her.

"The time is nigh to put things right." George paused, then pointed at the ceiling. "You're still in a coma up there, right?"

Conrad nodded.

"Are you going to deny being a genie now?" George asked.

He'd confronted the interloper at the outset, of course. But who would believe that genies existed--or even more ridiculous, that a lawyer like George had once had musical talent?

Conrad shrugged his shoulders. "I'm not."

"Are you also going to deny that I get more wishes?"

Conrad's eyes widened. "You can't be serious. I thought that now that you're a lawyer you'd be smarter than that."

But that was precisely why George thought he'd be successful. He was well-versed in how to make an agreement now, how to avoid loopholes and openings for interpretation. Inside his briefcase was a contract for his second wish that ought to buy back some of his lost happiness, if only the genie would agree.

He fumbled through the briefcase. Where had he put it?

Conrad began to laugh, a mocking inhuman sound that chilled George to the core of his being. As much as he disliked the genie, George had managed to be friends with it to an extent. He'd done so out of necessity, to keep Lara in his life. He had imagined that he and the creature had reached an understanding. One night, a year ago, Conrad had let George play his old guitar. No one had heard but the two of them.

"Stop that laughing," George said, unable to keep the alarm from his voice.

But Conrad only laughed louder.

The basement was so cold.

Carrying the Wishes Brew but leaving the briefcase behind, George got up and walked to the iron shutters and threw back the bolt. He eased the door open the smallest of cracks. Warmth. Next, he downed a long swallow of the potent liqueur and summoned his courtroom face, the one he used when he had a criminal on the stand and wanted to break him. Showtime.

"Listen, Conrad. I've been studying your kind, and I know how to handle you now."

Conrad dropped, panic-stricken to his knees. "No. Please. I'm sorry. Don't throw me outside."

Outside? George glanced at the oddly shaped door to the furnace. He'd always thought it resembled a window. He eased it open a crack further, and the orange light fell across the table, illumining the diploma he'd left there. The letters glowed.

Clutching the bottle, George made his way to the table. In the light of the furnace, the words of the mysterious diploma were understandable. "I, George Faust, agree to give a piece of my soul to the minor Demon and damned soul Conrad Wagner. Moreover, he will receive sixteen of the sixty-four years remaining to my life."

"A piece of my soul?" George said, not quite believing what he'd read.

"I'm only a minor demon."

George swayed, took another swig of the sweet liqueur and blinked at the bottle. It read "133.2 proof." That number had always struck him as weird. Who included a decimal point? Wait, that was 66.6 percent.

"Oh, God," George said, not sure if he was praying. He'd misunderstood everything.

"Please." Conrad wailed. "Close the window. Can't you hear them, George?"

Now that Conrad called it to his attention, he did. Between the crackling of the flames came long sorrowful sighs, sounds that embodied despair itself. George pushed the window shut and slid the bolt.

"I don't care what it costs me," George said in a trembling voice. "I want my guitar back."

"That's not how it works," Conrad said. "You can't ever have that life back."

What could he do?

George set down the bottle and pulled out his phone. He had a collection of pictures of Lara. He stood there, shivering. He'd saved her business once, long ago. If only he could save her heart.

"You loved our Lara, right?" George asked.

"With all my soul," Conrad said.

"Listen," George said in a shaky voice. "I have another wish. I'd like to be a world famous doctor, one that's good enough to bring you out of your coma."

"You—you can't be serious," Conrad said.

George pocketed the phone and picked up his pen and extended it to Conrad. "Yep. I'm ready for a new career."

With a smile and a flourish, Conrad brought out a stethoscope and a contract. The world went dark the moment George signed.

***

George blinked his eyes. Every part of him hurt.

"Where am I?"

"George. Oh, George," Lara cried. She wrapped her arms around him, sobbing. He inhaled her scent, more intoxicating than the Wishes Brew.

"I expect he'll be up and walking in a few months," Conrad said.

With some pain and difficulty, George turned his head to see a bald doctor beaming down at him.

"I thought--" George began.

"Daddy!" a young girl said from the door. She let go the Mylar balloon with "Get Well Soon" written on the side and ran to join Lara in hugging him.

Daddy? Then the memories came back to him--how he and Lara had fallen in love after he'd saved her business by paying all her fines with his life savings. He laughed and a tear beaded on his cheek. His hands were wrapped in casts, though, so he couldn't wipe it away.

"Okay, you two ladies need to go outside for a minute." Conrad patted the girl's head. "I need a minute alone with my patient."

"Sure," Lara said. After more kisses from her and his daughter, the two left.

As soon as they were gone, Conrad said, "Trick or treat."

The two men laughed.

"Thanks," George said. "But how did this happen?"

"When you asked if I loved Lara, I said 'with all my soul.' That's when I realized I had one. It started as a sliver of yours, but it grew." Conrad smiled wryly. "And people with souls get to make wishes, so I wished for something from you and paid for it with that mystical part of you that Lara has always loved."

"What did you wish for?" George asked.

"Why to live five more years, of course. Sorry about that. I took your profession and five more years of your life."

George frowned. "Then what do I do for a living now?"

"My job before I was a demon," Conrad said.

Then George remembered the day he'd gotten his first big paycheck, it was for a theme song to a detective show. That was where he'd gotten the money to pay Lara's legal fees. "I'm a songwriter," he breathed.

"You were no good as a lawyer; you didn't read the new contract. But you were always a good friend."

At the end of the story, Steven drained the remains of his broth. He didn't seem to notice that Jesse kept her eyes on his backpack and the prize it contained.