James Gullickson

It was a children's toy, that much was obvious, but it was old.

probably from the 1950s or 60s based on the branding, and in decent condition.

He closed the box, put it in his trunk, and got back in his car.

Home was Will's parents' basement.

It wasn't as pathetic as it sounded, or actually, maybe it was exactly as pathetic as it sounded.

The basement had been finished years ago, but when his parents had hoped to rent it out for extra money, it had its own entrance, its own bathroom, a small kitchenette that was really just a mini fridge, a microwave, and one of those countertop single burner things.

His parents had furnished it with retired pieces from the rest of the house.

A couch that had seen better days.

A bed with a frame that creaked and groaned when he rolled over.

A coffee table stained with water rings.

He'd moved in temporarily four years ago.

After the lease on his apartment ran out and his roommate moved to Seattle and he couldn't afford to live alone.

His parents said it was fine.

Plenty of people his age were living at home.

It was a job market thing, not a Will thing.

Will knew the truth though.

It was a Will thing, and it felt like it would always be a Will thing.

He set the magic box on his coffee table and opened it.

The top hat was collapsible, designed to pop into shape when you tapped it.

The mechanism still worked, though the fabric was worn and there was a small tear near the brim.