Free Chasing Midnight by Courtney King Walker

chance to fully appreciate the moment.
    It isn’t until I pull open the bottom drawer that I’m fully convinced this whole wish-making situation is for real. Lined up in a perfect row are three pairs of running shoes (yes, I have a drawer for shoes). Three pairs of the same running shoe too—each in a different color. Not just any shoe, either. Nike Flyknits.
    Wish number two.
    I pick the pink ones and slip them on—yes, these are running shoes you slip on—before checking them out in the mirror. I’m impressed. I don’t think my feet could look any better if they tried.
    Reluctantly, I give up admiring my Nikes and venture out into the hallway, but after one turn I’m already lost, with no staircase in sight and my sense of direction completely shot. I also can’t find a single recognizable landmark (or housemark, I guess), and the air smells unfamiliar too—unquestionably a different scent than my other house. This strange house is as dark as it is foreign, and I’m afraid to turn on any lights, for fear of waking someone up. Every direction I turn has me bumping into walls and furniture and sharp corners, colliding with anything one could run into when one doesn’t know the layout of her own house.
    At last, I spot the outline of a stair railing and make my way toward it. With one hand gripping the cool, slick railing for support, I descend the spiral staircase with caution, taking each step one at a time until I reach the bottom. When I step out onto the hard floor at the base of the stairs, a dim light comes to life along the perimeter of the room, bleeding through the darkness like a tiny glowing sunrise.
    I gasp at the enormity of the shadowy room as it comes into focus. We’re talking vaulted ceilings with enough space to kick and miss a field goal—the kind of square footage that would make the Sistine Chapel jealous.
    I take a few steps and stop, unsure exactly where to go next. Something about this place feels familiar, but I’m still too stunned by the newness of this situation to connect any dots forming in my head. I’m also pretty positive that somewhere in this “house” an irritated man in knee socks and running shoes claiming to be my father is impatiently waiting for me to show up.
    Where? That’s what I want to know.
    To the left of me, about twenty yards away, a bright beam of light seeps out of a dark hallway. Not having any better leads, I follow the light, stopping at the entrance to the bright kitchen where Dad is sitting at the counter, staring into his phone. I am frozen in place, my hand covering my mouth because the dotsin my head have connected and all at once I realize the room in front of me isn’t just any kitchen. It’s the exact kitchen in which I practically spent the entire night last night working my butt off while trying to please a bunch of rich kids.
    This is Brecke Phillips’s house.
    For a second I think maybe I’m wrong, that maybe I’m imagining things. Everything looks so different this morning without the bright lights and constant noise of the wait staff running back and forth. But the longer I stare, the more obvious it becomes. This is the view of an average morning in the kitchen belonging to the biggest, fanciest house at the top of Sea View Drive.
    Wish number one.
    I pivot on my heels to take in my surroundings, freaking out just a teensy bit. This is . . . drumroll, please . . . MY HOUSE. Not Brecke’s house. Mine.
    I can’t help it; I start laughing. But then I stop when Dad raises an eyebrow and shakes his head at me.
    Ignoring his uptight attitude, I stretch my leg on top of the countertop, checking out how sweet my shoes look on the sleek granite.
    They look good, by the way.
    “Get your foot off the counter and let’s go,” Dad says, nudging me out of the kitchen to the front door.
    Outside on the porch, I stand under a pair of hazy lights, waiting for Dad to start out with a few stretches or something low-key like that. But he takes off