Tuesday.

I slept for two days.

Not straight, obviously. I got up to pee, to get water, to eat, to feed Worf whenever he started meowing, to change the bandage I’d put on my foot. Sometime on Monday, I spent two hours staring at the popcorn ceiling of my apartment, wishing it were smooth. Tuesday morning, I even shook things up by taking a nap on the couch.

Victory wasn’t very sweet. The paper was going to die. I had no money, and I’d sent out a half-finished issue loaded with gibberish. I didn’t have my laptop or phone, so I couldn’t check the subscription numbers, but it was going to be a miracle to be in double digits.

I thought about going to the library, using their computer to pull up the numbers, but that thought just depressed me. It was better to let it die.

Tuesday afternoon, there was a knock on my apartment door. I ignored it.

A minute later, another knock. I still ignored it.

The third knock, I finally got up, grabbed an old shirt to put on so I wouldn’t just be wearing pajama shorts, and answered it.

The person in the doorway was about my height, shoulder length hair, in glasses and office casual apparel.

Kennedy was not a person I wanted to see just then.

I acknowledged them, anyways. “Hey.”

They stepped inside without asking, holding up my backpack. “I brought your stuff. Your phone is fixed, your motorcycle is at Maggie’s getting fixed up. Grabbed your mail, too.”

I faced my visitor, half awake, not happy at all to see them in my apartment. “Put it on the table.”

“The paperwork’s all filled out, I’ll just need you to sign one thing to say that they were returned to you,” Kennedy continued, unzipping the pack and taking out a folded paper form. “Trust me, it was a shitstorm getting it out of impound this quick.”

They held out the paper and a pen, waiting for me to take it.

I looked down at the paper, then back up at Kennedy. I took it, and started reading.

Kennedy just stood there, clearly uncomfortable. I wasn’t about to put them at ease.

My cat, at least, noticed the potential source of petting and walked up, rubbing his head against Kennedy’s leg. Kennedy bent, supplying the necessary offering of head scratches. “What’s the cat’s name?”

I looked up from the papers. “Worf, son of Meowgh,”

They chuckled, standing straight as Worf decided that scratching up my couch was more interesting than the newcomer and scampered away.

A few more seconds passed before I spoke again. “You sold me out.”

They nodded. “Well, yeah.”

“I almost died.”

“I know.”

Apparently, they weren’t going to say ‘sorry’.

I glanced back down at the paper. Everything was in order, I just needed to sign the bottom line.

That was… surprisingly simple, given my dealings with the council in the past.

Kennedy shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable. “I took care of your parole paperwork for the month, too. I figured you’d be too busy.”

I looked up at them, then at the paper again. “You… did all the paperwork for me.”

“Yes.”

That was as close to an apology as I was going to get.

I looked them in the eye, and decided there was no point in starting a fight. “Thanks, Kennedy.”

They paused for a moment longer, ready for the conversation to be over. “Right. I’ve got to, eh...”

“Probably pretty busy at the office,” I said. “How much of it’s falling on you?”

“Oh, it’s FUBAR,” Kennedy shook their head. “I haven’t slept in… Saturday. I slept on Saturday. It’s mostly falling on the regional council directors, but I’m taking a lot of heat, and it’s pretty damned ugly.”

I shrugged, and walked to my coffee maker. I was still out of milk, but I needed something with caffeine so I wouldn’t just crash back into bed as soon as they were gone. “Did you know about the well?”

“I mean, yeah.” Kennedy was blunt with me. I appreciated that. “We keep that shit secret until it’s already in place to prevent meddling, and so nobody can throw a shitfit when they find out somebody else is getting the well and they aren’t.”

“That’s a great excuse,” I said. “I’d almost buy it if I didn’t know better.”

“I mean…” Kennedy shook their head. “Yeah.”

I looked back at them. “Am I gonna have to go to court over all this?”

“Probably, but just for some civil charges. It’ll make it a pain in the ass if you ever finally decide to get your magic license, but you won’t see jail time.” They frowned, looking back at the door.

“I’ll talk to you later, Kennedy.”

They nodded in thanks, backed out the door, and shut it on their way out.

The mail they left was just a couple letters - bills, and an alert from the bank - and my own newspaper. I unfolded it, scanning the front-page article.

Like I’d expected, it was gibberish. Ranting and raving about moon men and cheese production, with crudely rendered sketches of rocket ships replacing the images I’d put there. The only thing that I’d actually written on the page was the title.

The rest of the paper was as I’d left it. Mostly blank pages, unpolished articles with typos and mistakes. There was only one article that was intact, an opinion piece about the proper way to do full moon sacrifices with ‘L. Lysander, Esquire of Hell’ on the byline.

I sighed. No more excuse for not looking into things. Unzipping the bag, I took out my cell phone.

Holy shit.

Fifty-seven voicemails. More than a hundred texts.

Too much to deal with. I only looked at the messages from contacts that were already saved in my phone.

Maggie had my bike, fixed and ready to pick up. She didn’t say how she was doing after her fight with the counsellors, just that it was fixed, along with an attached invoice. I didn’t know how I was going to pay her back. I owed her for the crystals I’d taken, too, and the sending stone. I’d have to work out some kind of payment plan.

Twenty of the texts were from Ben. I didn’t read them. That was a whole other can of worms. I just texted, ‘I’m okay. I’m not in magic jail, and I’m not hurt. Fill you in later.’

No more putting it off.

Logging into the self-service portal, I checked my print subscription numbers. As the page loaded, I readied myself for disappointment.

You can salvage this. Fifty, even twenty subscriptions would be enough to build it back up. Don’t give up.

The number loaded.

Holy shit.

Thirty-two hundred and forty-seven people.

Ten times what I’d had before. By my count, nearly every magically inclined individual in the city.

In shock, I turned on my voicemail, trying to find some clue what was going on.

A voice I didn’t recognize. “Hey, is this that newspaper? I heard about you from Buck. What you did was incredible, I just wanted to say thanks.”

Another random number. “You the reporter? I just subscribed, I wanted to see if you knew about the sun festival next month. Figured you could run a story on that.”

Another. “I heard from a friend about the investigation stuff you did. Way to go, standing up for the little guy! Those council fat cats can suck on my—” I tapped the phone, moving to the next message.

Another. “I wanted to inquire about getting an ad in your paper? Are there any slots available for next week’s issue?”

It kept going. I just listened. People calling in to thank me, to give tips, to inquire about ads. Three separate people asked if they could write an advice column.

The coffee finished brewing, got drank, and was percolating a second time before the voicemails got done. I started on the texts, but it was more of the same.

As I was reading them, my phone rang.

It was Ben.

I answered it.

“Levi? Are you okay?”

“I… I am.” I didn’t know how I felt, but ‘okay’ felt right. “I… we did it.”

“So the truth got out?” He asked.

Well, that clears one thing up. I’d suspected, but this confirmed that Murray had just been lying to my face when she said Ben didn’t remember me.

“Yeah. The truth got out. It’s… sorry, I’m dealing with a lot right now.”

I had wasted two days. I had to get the next issue done by Saturday. With all the new subscribers, it had to be perfect, and I had to go through all the tips I’d gotten, and respond to the people writing in, and find new stories, and—

“Tell you what,” Ben said. “Meet me for coffee and you can tell me about it?”

I needed to contact the printer and tell them to expect a lot more volume this week. I’d need to reformat my paper to make more room for the ads. In two days I’d gone through growth that I’d expected to take years, and I had no idea how I’d get all that work done in time. “I… I don’t know when I’ll have the time.”

“Sunday?”

Sunday was good. I’d have the paper out by then. “Sure. It’s a date.”

“See you then.”

I hung up the phone, letting it drop to the counter. I’m going to need more coffee.

I started pouring another mug, and took out my laptop so I could start addressing my messages.

There was work to be done.

The End