He nods, furrowing his brow in concentration. “Is that everything?”

“Are you kidding? We’re just getting started.”

I go into lengthy detail on the size of the bathtubs, the color of kitchen cabinets, the landscaping. A pantry stocked with gourmet chocolate truffles. A walk-in closet bigger than Eileen’s house. Valentino Rockstud Spike shoulder bags in pink, blue, yellow, black, white, and poudre. I used to have one of those bags in blue, and it was my very favorite possession until I had to pawn it to get myself out of trouble with a loan shark. (The loan was for an actual shark, too. I used to have a seven-hundred-gallon aquarium in my bedroom.)

“And in the driveway, a red Aston Martin DBS Superleggera,” I conclude with a giddy clap, beyond ready to kiss this place goodbye. “Make my wish come true.”

Hall’s been taking feverish notes. “Okay. I think I got it all.” He sucks in a deep breath, shutting his eyes. A moment later, he opens them but doesn’t speak. Or look at me.

“So?” I prompt. “Did you do it?”

He still won’t look at me, those limpid green eyes fixating on the threadbare sofa. A hand lifts to scratch his head. “Hmmm.”

“Hmmm, what?”

“I mean, I did. I did do what you wanted. Sort of.”

“Can I see?” I wait for him to cross his arms and tip his head like we’re in I Dream of Jeannie.

He pauses. “You might have to live without the sauna.”

“We can revisit that.” I am not living without the sauna.

To my surprise, we don’t teleport. Instead, he directs me to my car. “Are we driving to the airport?” I ask.

“We could walk, actually.” He nods, shutting the passenger door. Its hinges scream.

“Where are we going?”

He doesn’t reply. Hall is looking pretty nervous, and I find out why once we’re standing on the sidewalk along Old Homestead Road, facing a block of four buildings. At the center, between Teller City Trading Company (Gift Shoppe & Old West Portrait Studio) and the Blue Moose Café, there’s an empty plot fenced behind spiked wrought iron, with a carpet of soggy autumn leaves and a well-preserved vintage milk truck.

Next to the milk truck sits a dollhouse.

“Hall.”

Hall searches the sky with deep interest, pretending not to hear.

“Hall, what am I looking at?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll fix it. It just needs some . . . tweaking.” He glances around to see if anyone’s out and about. It’s a gray, drizzly day, which seems to have chased the town indoors.

“Why on earth would you put a dollhouse here? Hall, I want to go to Hawaii now.”

“Shh, I’m concentrating. I’m very new at this sort of transfiguration thing, you know.” He presses his fingers to his temples, knees bent. It’s a funny sight, but I’m pulled away from it by the spectacle of the dollhouse, which is growing in size while the milk truck shrinks down to a toy.