JUSTIN JONES shot out the front door of the house where he lived—not his house, just the place where he was forced to live—and ran until he could no longer hear his uncle’s shouts. Even then he didn’t feel safe. Sometimes Uncle Rafe’s anger was so powerful it propelled the man onto the street after Justin. So the boy ran on, stopping only when the stitch in his side became so painful he could go no farther.

He leaned against a tree, panting and gasping for breath. The air burned in his lungs.

It was late twilight, and stars had just begun to appear, peeking out of the darkness like the eyes of cats hiding in a closet. Justin didn’t see them. He was pressing his face against the tree, wishing he could melt into its rough bark and be safe.

When he finally opened his eyes again, Justin noticed an odd mist creeping around the base of the tree—a mist that somehow seemed to have more light, more color, than it should.

Curious, he stepped forward to investigate.

As he circled the tree he heard an odd whispering sound and felt a tingle in his skin. The mist covered the street ahead of him—a street he had never seen before, despite the fact that Barker’s Elbow was a very small town.

He walked on.

At the end of the street he saw a strange, old-fashioned-looking building. In the window were the words ELIVES MAGIC SUPPLIES—S. H. ELIVES, PROP.

I could sure use a little magic about now, thought Justin. He glanced at his watch. Most of the stores in town were closed by this time of the evening. But this one had a light in the window.

He tried the door. It opened smoothly.

A small bell tinkled overhead as he stepped in.

Justin smiled. He would never have dreamed that Barker’s Elbow could hold such a wonderful store. Magicians’ paraphernalia was scattered everywhere. Top hats, capes, scarves, big decks of cards, and ornate boxes covered the floor, the walls, the counters, even hung from the ceiling. At the back of the shop stretched a long counter with a dragon carved in the front. On top of the counter stood an old-fashioned brass cash register. On top of the cash register sat a stuffed owl. Behind the counter was a door covered by a beaded curtain.

Justin wandered to one of the counters. On it stood an artillery shell, thick as his wrist. To his disappointment, the shell had already been fired. Attached was a tag that said LISTEN.

Remembering the big seashell his mother used to put to his ear so he could “hear the ocean,” Justin lifted the empty metal shell and held the hollow end to his ear.

He could hear the sound of cannons, explosions, the terrified neighs of horses, the screams of wounded men.

He put the shell down. Quickly.