The midnight hour had long passed, and Ernest paced the office for a solution to his problem. Going back to his apartment wasn’t an option with the cranky Haddermore patrolling the halls.

The coat rack near the door wobbled as he grabbed his jacket and set out to visit Thomas R. Smith, the fake lawyer.

Smith worked as an actor at the local theater, and like most, took side jobs to earn extra cash. Time was forever against Ernest, and the actor would do in a pinch.

Ernest’s stomach churned at the dingy street that reeked of vomit and old milk. He checked the address on the slip of paper in his suit pocket. 113 Fern Lane.

The homes this far north used to be middle class in stature, but as with everything, their value had plunged, becoming gathering places for squatters and vagabonds. Most of the houses lacked running water and electricity. Still, Ernest would’ve taken one any day over his shipwreck of an apartment.

Suspicious neighbors scrutinized Ernest as he marched along the cracked sidewalk. A well-dressed man in their area of town was a sign of trouble.

Ernest hurried up the steps and pounded on the door. No answer. “Come out, Smith. We need to talk.”

The stomping of feet vibrated along the floorboards and the hollow front door. “I’m coming!” Smith opened the door with a swagger. “Oh, it’s you.”

Smith’s rank body odor drifted like a gray cloud toward Ernest. He took a step back. “Why hasn’t the girl shown up at my office yet?”

“Our little meeting was only three days ago. Do you want me to badger the kid and raise suspicion?”

“It’s clear you’ve underestimated the urgency of this job.”

“Well, I do have another project. I might stop by later tomorrow and check up on her.”

“You might?” Ernest asked. “Don’t bother. A personal visit might be what’s needed.”

“I still get the other half of my money, right? You still owe me half.”

Ernest laughed. “You think you’re entitled to full payment for your half-effort?”

“You can’t back out of our deal. We shook on it.”

“Oh, I’m sure you won’t be too put out.” Ernest placed his hat on his head and turned for the stairs.

“You can’t cheat me! I will get my money,” Smith yelled.

Ernest stopped and focused on the sidewalk before him. “If you can’t deliver the girl, then you’re the one who has broken our contract. You’re like the others who expect to get something for nothing, making the rich richer, and the poor die in the streets.

“It’s people like you who have destroyed this economy and the country.” Smith ventured farther on the front stoop. “You lie and cheat to make your way and never consider how it affects others. You’re no better than the greedy people you claim to despise.”

Ernest turned and stepped methodically toward Smith, who raced back inside the home and braced himself against the backside of the door. Ernest clutched his hands and rammed the door with his shoulder. Unlike the past events, he felt no pain. “Greed has killed thousands, my sister being one of them.”

Smith trembled from the floor as Ernest moved closer. “What’s wrong with you? Your hands!”

The sleeve of Ernest’s jacket stretched and ripped as his hand grew three times larger than usual. He swung, hitting Smith’s head, and the force knocked him into the next room. Ernest snatched his hat from the floor and staggered from the house.

Neighbors scurried from their front porches into the safety of their homes, peering at Ernest from split curtains.

The disfigurement of his hands and face had him running into trees and parked cars. What is happening to me? I need to get to the magician.