Once upon a time, he could walk through walls. He could burn through metal and call down lightning and even fly. He could shuffle through realities like a deck of cards and select the one he needed.

Once upon a time, he did real magic, just by snapping his fingers.

He lost that a long time ago.

Four minutes, five seconds. Six. Seven.

Everything narrows down to a small tunnel, and Eric sees something rushing toward him.

Colchester: a face like a skull, burned down to the bone on one side, the smile pulled into a leer by the melted flesh of its cheek.

Colchester opens his mouth and laughs at Eric. His breath smells like an open grave. “You thought you won.”

“You’re dead,” Eric says, and a part of his mind registers the water flowing into his mouth as he speaks.

“So are you,” Colchester says.

Eric feels heavy. Sleepy. Something important occurs to him. If Colchester is back — if he’s really back — that means something for him, too. If Colchester is back, then the magic might be back, too.

Eric snaps his fingers.

Something bright explodes in his vision. The glass wall of the tank shatters.

He flops out onto the stage like a dying fish, soaking wet, as the screams reach his ears. The showgirls cluster around him quickly. It’s Kendall who gets to him first. He remembers she worked as a lifeguard every summer in college. She helps him to his hands and knees and pounds his back.

Eric pukes out tank water amid the shards of broken glass on the floor.

He can see the audience beyond the stage lights. They are almost all on their feet, mouths open in genuine wonder and terror.

At least they got their money’s worth.

Eric looks offstage and spots Gordon, slowly backing away. They lock eyes for a moment.

Then Eric leaps to his feet and launches himself at the old man.

Two hours later, Eric limps up the stairs to his apartment. All things considered, it could have been worse.

He dragged Gordon out from backstage — he had already been running for the door, the coward — and pinned him in front of the knife-throwing target. By the time security arrived, four hundred tourists had watched him assault the stage manager.

He didn’t really blame the casino for firing him. Eric felt he was justifiably angry, but he couldn’t explain that when he looked at Gordon, for a moment he still saw Colchester’s face. He could barely explain that to himself. He is pretty sure that he must have been hallucinating. Lack of oxygen firing random neurons in his brain. There’s no way he saw Colchester, no way he broke open the tank with a magic ball of lightning. Those days are long gone.