Sable

The next afternoon, I stand in front of a card table we’ve unfolded in the street with half a pound of shattered glass on the ground at my feet.

I suck at this.

I’ve been at it non-stop for more than a day—minus the roughly six hours I managed to sleep last night. No matter how hard I push myself, I just can’t seem to get past my own mental blocks. I’m getting nowhere.

For what feels like the sixth hundredth time, I trace a sigil in the air, and the empty glass soda bottle on the table shudders before lifting ever-so-slightly off the tabletop. I focus on that...