“Good, good,” the Godmother says and scans the shelves. “Now, let’s see.” She passes the kid a plastic sword. “Give it a wave,” she says.

The boy holds it up, swings. Sound effects whiz and thunder.

“Certainly not,” the Godmother says and grabs the sword back. “Never fear, sometimes it takes several tries.”

The scepter she hands him next is also a dud and sets off a fake explosion.

“Wrong,” she says and mimes contemplation.

The boy has his eyes on the actor now, like he’s forgotten what’s not real.

“HOW DO YOU see the world?” my rehab therapist asked the day I arrived and again the day I left. A pattern of tragedy, respite, tragedy, I said both times. But this wasn’t always the case. “Be the wolf,” Leah recited, and once I thought I could. Once I thought I could use power, the people who had it, the men, to make me immune to loss. I had the privileges attached to health and youth and whiteness. And a wide open something I mistook for beauty. I imagine it now as an invisible mark, an absence where a father went, a fear of who I’d be without a mother. She had always been sick, and even when I pushed her away, even as I tried to be different, I knew to fear her loss. I am responsible; I am not at fault. I want to feel that both are true. Here, in this replica, this room that is both present and past, I bargain with my brain, consider the worth of a story like mine. I am neither lost nor found, lucky nor cursed, and no fairy Godmother is coming to save me. From the bag strapped to my back I feel my phone, buzzing.

AT THE FRONT of the room, the Godmother paces. She stops, puts a finger to her cheek and taps. “Wait just a minute,” she says and then, “no, it can’t be,” and then, “but maybe, just maybe.” Awestruck music starts soft and builds.

The Godmother climbs the ladder, removes a long, white wand with a red, plastic heart on the tip.

“This special wand symbolizes True Love’s Kiss,” she says. “It has the power to break even the strongest curse.” She places the wand in the child’s outstretched hand. The soundtrack crescendos and the room goes pitch. A bright beam shines down on the boy only.

“True Love will guide you,” the Godmother cries and all the lights come up.

I EXIT TO the gift shop. And that’s when I see them, the woman and girl from the hotel pool, standing off to the side, bargaining. “Isabelle honey, that wand was a prop,” the mother says. “We’ll get you your own.” Her forehead elevens are up and working.