It wasn't supposed to work this fast. You get what you pay for, I guess. If you're the kind of person willing to buy from the old lady with three teeth in the last row at the farmers' market, you have to be willing to eat the consequences. And I was. It was all I ever thought about. Every Thursday night, Nicole and I were glued to the TV watching the models drape acres of silk over their impossibly small hips. We'd watch the dancers move for the camera like it was the only thing that mattered. Nicole would sigh and pinch the nonexistent flesh at her waist.

"I want that job. It's not that hard. I could give up cheeseburgers."

I'd sigh right along with her, knowing that the only difference is that my kid sister actually meant it. Strangers were always asking her if she modeled. Me, though. I liked the dancers best. And when Lara danced, the world went away. Lara. Single name like Prince. She wasn't like other dancers. She didn't even seem to feel the stage underneath her; her feet and hips and shoulders, her hands with the blood-red nails, her untameable black hair were their own instruments, she didn't need music. Sometimes she'd fire-spin, sometimes she'd dress in a single piece of gossamer and beat a frame drum like she was a Roman priestess or something, if Roman priestesses believed in wearing a lot less. One time, she danced with a snake and when people cried animal cruelty, she laughed. Lara wasn't beautiful, not like the models, and I didn't need beauty, either. What I needed was brave. And I watched and learned, but brave isn't something you learn.

The farmers' market was Nicole's idea. She knows I hate crowds, but she saw a TikTok about exposure therapy so there we were. Nicole took off for the taco truck as soon as we got there, and, in a sea of jostling people, all breathing the same air, kids hollering to go play in the park, I considered losing it and calling a Lyft. But I didn't want to be that kind of girl for once, so I searched everywhere for the quietest spot, the one with the least people, and there she was. Just her, by herself, with a rickety card table piled with dark glass bottles. She was doing the crossword. Rude as hell, Nicole would have said.

Rude as hell means no people. I love rude as hell. I made my way over to her. They let you put up posters at this market, but hers just had a little index card. I had to bend down to read it. Everything For a Price.

"No freebies?" I tried to be chummy and regretted it immediately. She looked at me like I was tracking something on my shoe. She was the best defense for the idea that if you make a face it'll stick that way.

"Read the sign."

"What's all this stuff?" I tried again.

"Depends," She finally put the paper down and looked up at me, "on what you want."

"I mean, is this medicine or whatever?"

"It can be."

I reached out and picked up a bottle and, my hand to God, she slapped it away with the newspaper.

"Not that one. You have too much of that one already."

I pulled my hand back.

"That one's caution. You're covered in it."

"That one?" I pointed, playing along, not wanting to get back in the crowd, not wanting to get smacked with the paper again.

She actually tnorted. "Love? You wouldn't know what to do with love if it jumped up and bit you on the..."

"What about that one?"

"How stupid are you?" she was actually laughing now, "that one's a repellent. You don't get out enough for that. Waste of your money."

I don't exactly give "have somewhere to be on a Saturday night" vibes, so I wasn't suspicious yet.

She picked up her crossword again.

"Courage, lacks. Six letters."

Now the smallest of the little hairs on the backs of my arms started to prickle.

"Hey, that's not funny." I started to walk away, thinking I'd try to track Nicole down and get a coffee. I guess she saw her only sale of the day walking away because she reached deep into the pile and shoved it into my hands.

"This one's for you."

Naturally, it didn't have a label. This isn't a story about good decisions.

"What's this one for?"

She actually smiled and, giant gaps where there should have been teeth notwithstanding, it was a nice enough smile.

"Two drops in that coffee. Then five more before you go to bed. You can mix it in water, but take it with food. Courage isn't for weak stomachs."

"What's in it?"

See, I wasn't completely stupid.

"It's not poison if that's what you're worried about." The scowl was now firmly bck in place, "that man-child from the health inspector's office says it's not poison. Doesn't mean I have to give you the recipe. Anyway, tomorrow morning," the smile again, "the world's at your feet and it won't matter. Don't forget the little people."

I'm not going to lie. I thought maybe I was accidentally in a drug deal and a tiny part of me wasn't mad about it. You get tired of being scared of everyone eventually. I made a big show of a noncommittal shrug.

"How much?"

With drug deals on TV, they always say the first one's free to get you hooked. No such luck here.

"Ten dollars for today," now she was really smiling, and I wondered if anyone had ever talked to her about her teeth, "come see me next week. If you like it, you'll be able to afford more by then."

I hadn't really planned to throw away ten bucks this fast, but at least it was a cheap drug deal.

Nicole couldn't believe it.

"You have to let me have some!" she passed over her coffee, but I shook my head.

"I tried to touch one and she hit me. I think it's only one per person."

"You know it's sugar water, right? All that stuff's fake."

I knew that. But the little part of me that wouldn't shut up, the part that said what you need is brave, squeezed two drops of a supiciously dark liquid into my coffee. It tasted like nothing. When I hadn't died by the time bedtime rolled around, five more drops down the hatch. This time it was slightly bitter, smoke and a little burn like the first (only) time I tried whiskey. I left the bottle on my night table in case I keeled over and they needed to tell the cops. Still laughing at myself for buying ten-dollar whiskey sugar water from an actual witch, I pulled the covers up.

Six AM. I'm never up at six AM. The first thing I noticed was how heavy my head was. Reaching out and turning on the lamp, I realized why. And froze. Where my mousy strawberry-bonde strands had been was a thick mane of raven's-wing hair. I was too surprised to scream. It was around this time that I lealized my hands looked strange in the lamplight. Where my bitten-down-to-the-quick nails had been, my long, tapered fingers were painted a lustrous wine-red. My hands were for beating a frame drum and dancing with snakes.