In the space between gulping the second glass of horchata down and realizing how hungry he was, a new item had appeared on the table: an empty bowl and a box of Cocoa Puffs. And Héctor had to laugh, because that meant he could act out his own personal blasphemy without anyone judging him: using horchata instead of milk in his cereal.

He poured horchata from the pitcher over the bowl of cereal, and didn’t hesitate to begin shoveling those chocolaty puffs directly into his mouth. He was barely chewing—not just out of hunger, but because he knew if he stopped and thought about this, it wouldn’t make sense. He was still inside a janitor’s closet, and that closet could change its contents at will. Not just that, but it seemed to be able to read Héctor’s mind?

Oh no.

He put the bowl back down on the table, and some badly chewed puffs fell out of his mouth and plopped on the table. He’d seen this movie! Magical room with exactly what you needed inside it? This was a trick. A trick set up by magical beings like fairies or wizards, and he’d just eaten a trap.

Except . . . that didn’t actually happen in real life.

Neither does a room like this, his mind shot back.

His stomach rumbled again.

All right, maybe a few more bites, he thought. If this really is a trap, then at least I won’t be hungry anymore.

It tasted so good. Héctor ended up finishing the bowl in a few bites. He guzzled down the delicious leftover horchata, which now had the sugary flavor of Cocoa Puffs.

The bowl clanged on the table when he set it down.

“This is really happening,” he said out loud.

And then he ripped a huge belch, and it echoed.

“Perdóneme,” he said, and then fell into a bout of laughter. Who was he apologizing to? There wasn’t anyone here. He shook his head as he looked around this impossible place.

Well, he wasn’t hungry anymore. He’d avoided getting caught by Mike and the Minions. Or Ms. Heath. Everything had worked out.

Maybe he wasn’t going to complain about things going his way for once.

Héctor grabbed his bag and made for the door. Guilt struck him: He had left his dirty bowl on the table. His parents had raised him to always clean up after himself.

There was a sound—soft, swift, almost imperceptible—and he looked back.

Into a normal janitor’s closet.

Never mind the dirty cereal bowl. All the furniture was gone. The lights, too. The TV, the Switch, the fridge, the table . . . everything. It was now the same closet he’d seen multiple times since coming to Orangevale Middle School. And there, up in the corner, was King Ferdinand, repairing a part of his web.