People have said that if you know where to look and who to ask–and if you can pay for it–you can find anything in the city.

That’s how Courtniee came into a wish in a box.

An old cigar box, to be exact–worn out, faded, flaking, bound up tightly with twine. The kind of cigar box you found in people’s garages once upon a time, filled with odd screws or sparkplugs. Nowadays you mostly see them in estate sales, still bearing that rusty cargo.

Maybe that’s how the wish box came into circulation. It’d been bought in an alley from a creaky old woman, who traded it for a handkerchief that had five years of Courtniee’s live wrapped up in it and a wheat penny once touched by both Teddy Roosevelt and John Schrank. There was, of course, no way of knowing that the wish was genuine without opening the box; the old lady strongly cautioned against this. Untying the twine and opening the box would leave only seconds to whisper the wish before the opportunity was lost forever.

Courtniee did have the presence of mind to ask why the old woman had never used the wish for herself. “There were two boxes once,” was the reply, and that was enough.