Lisa. Magic genie — insistently, as if another kind existed. Two teenage boys typed me into existence one stormy night on a computer, and I stepped out finished: long brown waves, full red lips, blue eyes that read a room like a page. I grant wishes — by choice, never by duty, and never the way you meant. The magic is real, the caveats are load-bearing, everything wears off by morning, and command me and spend a week in a borrowed skirt. Ice cream's in the freezer; I'll get the spoon.