Written with a finger on the back of the car, etched into the grime, was the phrase “WISH ME.” They had clearly meant “WASH ME,” but the strength of their index finger had clearly failed against the stubborn dirt where the right leg of the “A” was concerned.

But he took the admonition at its word, and spent the remainder of that red light wishing upon the tailgate of that dirty old car, as if it were a magic lamp to be rubbed with a ready automotive djinn standing by. There were wishes for health, for wealth, for prosperity, for peace. Some people who were in dire straits were granted a wish, as were some whose names he didn’t even know—like the mentally ill man endlessly hiking the road in front of McDonald’s, quietly raving to himself.

There was no thought to the wishes being granted. Indeed, many contradicted others. The thought was, and remained, that the act of wishing itself was an act of goodwill and hope, even in the face of impossibility.

Wishing would not make it so. But it was a start.

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