The television remote, which I left hanging precariously on the edge of the couch cushion, somersaults to the floor, smashing the play button.

Startled, I go, “Agh!” and look at the hamster, as if she’s the one who turned it back on. She’s passed out cold in my fuzzy slipper, which I’ve made into a bed.

I heard you the first time, Hildy says in the background. I like it. That’s why I asked you to say it again.

I repause the movie, glowing numbers on the cable box below my television flashing from 11:59 to 12:00, one year to the next, and over on the Kinollghy, the song number rolls over right along with it. Goose bumps race along my arms.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, Mariah sings. The machine rattles, dial colors flushing from standard blue to vivid green to yellow-gold. A voice that is definitely not Mariah Carey’s crackles from the speakers, cutting her off. “Operator. You have unlocked your New Year’s Resolution.”

My legs almost buckle. “What? Hello?” I turn the volume up, which saturates the room with static. “Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” the female voice replies, sounding bored, as if it’s totally normal to converse with somebody through a radio. I stare at the round band of warm yellow light. There’s a subtle shimmer in it, like tiny glitter specks that turn sideways as they tumble through midair, flashing briefly, illuminating my hands, which are clutching the mahogany box in a death grip.

“Who is this?” I ask.

“You played ‘Auld Lang Syne’ on New Year’s Eve at precisely the stroke of midnight using a magical musical mechanism, did you not?” she inquires, a few degrees above exasperated.

“Yes to the first part. To the second, I don’t think so? My record player is just a regular old record player.”

“It’s never exhibited any supernatural behaviors?” The radio dial waffles back and forth like a compass needle, tipping from AM to FM.

“Well.” I bite my lip. “It once summoned the Holiday Spirit.”

“In that case, I’ll repeat: you have unlocked your New Year’s Resolution. You may cast it now or at your next convenience.”

“New . . . Year’s . . . Resolution,” I repeat slowly, trying to untangle her meaning. “Can you clarify?”

She inhales sharply through her nose, and the yellow light flickers. “Is this a prank call? Those punk interns from Arbor Day? I’ve had enough of you hooligans. The holiday switchboard is busy enough at this time of year without you giving me extra work.”

“No, no, this isn’t a prank!” I exclaim, panicking. If she hangs up on me, I don’t know if I’ll be able to get her back. “I’m a human. Uh, from earth. Down here. I get to do a resolution? What is that, exactly?”

“A resolution is a decision or determination. With magical influence behind it, the determination then acts as a wish. Some rules and restrictions may apply.”

I lie down on the floor, head spinning. “A wish.”