I wake up to the sound of drip coffee instead of cries for the first time in weeks. Maybe I’ll get to drink half the mug while it’s still hot, too. The nursery rocking chair squeaks when I settle into it. The white noise machine masks the sound, and I make a mental note to tighten the screws after the baby wakes. I really should use this opportunity to pump because we don’t have any breast milk in the freezer, and what if I’m in the hospital for appendicitis next week. The diaper pail is overflowing again, but I really should be using cloth diapers anyway because I hope my daughter never wakes up to a world where all the trees have died. I can hardly taste the French vanilla creamer I’d added to my cup. A mother’s morning coffee is always bitter no matter how much cream and sugar you add.

Cordelia walks through a fog of patchouli floating out of an incense burner shaped like a dragon. The incense cone sits in an opening in its belly, and smoke pours out of its nostrils and burns hers. The smell gives her a headache, and her nose starts to drip. She wipes her nose with her sweater sleeve, rubs her watery eyes, and looks around for a shelf of books. But this store isn’t separated into sections like a normal shop would be. It’s labyrinthine, with all sorts of things scattered about in alcoves of little scenes like an antique shop. In one corner, a round table is set with a stack of teacups, a bell with a pentagram etched on it, and three books that are the same color but completely different topics. Another corner has a bundle of dried flowers and herbs displayed in a teapot, a half-burned pillar candle, and a tobacco pipe sitting in a shelf. Yet another corner looks like has a stack of books, a few crystals different shades of blue, and a handmade doll. A girl sporting a purple crochet shawl and an abundance of silver jewelry in the shape of stars and moons walks by with an armful of merchandise. I wave her down and say, “Excuse me. Where can I find—“ “You’ll find what you need,” she says, cutting me off. She looks me up and down. “Or it will find you.” She walks away and unloads pieces of merchandise on passing surfaces with open space. Cordelia looks around the different pathway options, none more promising than the others. This was going to be a needle in a haystack. Or a book in an occult shop, apparently. She sighs and heads down a path with a violin and a skull displayed together, feeling lost and frustrated.

“I’m just so tired of the way he talks to me—like I’m stupid or something,” Mel says into an earpiece as she approaches the café counter. She catches my eye, fishes a fiver out of her purse, and hands it to me. “The usual, please.” I smile and nod, putting the cash in the register and taking the excess for the tip jar as she takes a seat at a nearby table. I pack a portafilter with espresso and run two shots through the espresso machine, catching pieces of her side of the conversation over the gargle of the machine. “Yeah, I’m meeting him for dinner at that fancy place downtown—“ I glance at the clock. 4:34. “—yeah, the one with the blue awnings. I just don’t think I can accept his proposal.” Mel has been coming in with her boyfriend since I started working here, and she’s made multiple jokes about waiting for him to propose. I’ve been putting spells on his drinks for months for him to either man up or back down for months, but maybe I shouldn’t have meddled in the first place. I heat and froth oat milk under the steamer wand and pour it over the espresso in a to-go cup, drawing out a sigil for bonds ending and new beginnings in the foam. I pop a lid on top and call her name, “Mel!” She stands up and comes to get her drink. “I agree, he just doesn’t bring much to the table, but he’s all I’ve got, Sam.” I don’t let go of the cup immediately when she tries to grab it, but I release it when she gives me an odd look. Sam is the name of her boyfriend. Then who is she talking about? Mel thanks me and takes a sip of her latte. I see the flicker in her eyes as the spell kicks in and wait to see what happens. “You know what. Fuck him, and fuck that job, I’m going to quit tonight.” She beams and raises her cup at me as she walks out, sounds of protest leaking out of her earpiece.