Page 14 of The Magic We Made

“No, man.” The kid is too astonished to bluff. He’s forgotten his dislike of me and his embarrassment over the girl’s rejection. He’s forgotten everything except what I’m holding in my hand. “I never... I mean, Iwishit was mine—”

Pleased that I have his attention—and the attention of nearly everyone in the car—I hold the card higher so Dylan has to tilt his chin a little to see it. I’d wondered when I purchased it three weeks ago at my neighborhood flea marketwhyI’d suddenly felt such a burning desire to own it. I don’t follow the Mets. I don’t collect baseball cards. I don’t care about sports at all (to my dad’s utter disappointment).

But I’d bought it anyway because this is how my “gift” works. The reason I bought the baseball card is written all over Dylan’s face.He’sthe one who wants it... wants it more than anything in the world.

And I’ve found it for him. Because that’s what I do. I find lost things—or rather, lost things find me. All I have to do is make myself available to be found—like here, tonight, on the varioustrains Emma might take to get back to West Harbor if she’s been in the city for the equinox celebration. Then I return the item to whoever was searching for it.

“Looks to me like a Luisangel Acuña rookie card.” I glance down at the card and shrug. “Not sure who that is, but it says Mets on it, and judging by your gear, you appear to be a fan, so I assumed—”

“It’s his.” One of Dylan’s friends leans forward and plucks the card from my hands. “Right, Dyl?”

“Yeah.” Dylan still looks stunned, but plays along with his friend. “It’s mine. I dropped it.”

Behind him, his posse snickers. They think they’ve gotten one over on me, which is exactly what I want them to think.

“Well,” I say. “Glad I could help.”

One of Dylan’s friends grips him by the shirt. “Yo, isn’t that card shop on Fifty-First and Second?”

One of the others replies, “Oh, yeah! Let’s go!”

As a group, they’re already shoving Dylan out the door and onto the station platform. His jaw, however, is set. “I’m not selling,” he tells his friends. “No way I’m selling!”

“Naw, man. If we get there before they close, we can just ask the guy how much it’s—”

Their voices fade as they move away from the train. The mood in the car has lifted, the previous unpleasantness forgotten. Everyone is smiling... everyone except for the girls.

“What wasthat?” the one Dylan had been hitting on asks me, her eyes narrowed.

“Uh...” I glance at her friends. They’re wearing similar looks of disapproval. How did I screw up this time?

“You didn’t find that card. I saw you take it out of your pocket.Am I supposed to thank you, or something, for rewarding that guy for his terrible behavior?” the girl demands. “Because I didn’t need your help. I could have handled that idiot all by myself.”

Busted.

“Well,” I begin. Explaining my special skill is always awkward. What am I supposed to say, that sometimes I’m seized with a longing to buy something or go somewhere, a longing I can’t explain? That it can happen anywhere, over anything, and sometimes I don’t even realize it’s happening, let alone why, for years? That it’s why I’m a homeowner, even though I don’t need a house? Iespeciallydon’t need a house in West Harbor, Connecticut. I like my apartment here in the city. I have no desire to live anywhere else.

But the minute I saw that lake house, I knew I had to have it, just like I knew I had to have that baseball card.

At least now I knowwhyI had to have the baseball card. The house, I worry I’ll never understand.

“It’s true I bought it,” I try explaining to the girls. “But it was only a dollar—”

“I suppose you’re going to ask her to give you her number,” one of the girl’s pissed off–looking friends interrupts. “Out of gratitude for you saving her.”

“Like he’s some kind of chivalrous knight,” another of the girls sneers. “In jeans instead of shining armor.”

What the hell? “No! That’s not—that isn’t—”

They all start laughing, and I realize they’re kidding. Sort of.

“Iamgoing to ask all of you for something,” I admit. “But it’s only to please look at this photo and tell me if you’ve seen this girl recently.”

All of their gazes lock instantly onto my phone screen.

“Her name’s Emma Bridle,” I say. “She’s eighteen years old. She’s been missing for a few months now. Have any of you seen her?” I turn the phone so each girl can get a good look. “She might have been at the equinox festival in Times Square. She likes that stuff.”

“Like” isn’t the right word. According to her parents, in the past year, Emma grew obsessed with all things supernatural and occult.