Scott continued to spit out the lingering sweetness of the ipecac, slowly processing the fact that he was floating. Focusing on the residue in his mouth felt safer than confronting the reality of his levitation. Six feet up, he wondered how he'd get down. As he focused on descending, he drifted slowly toward the floor, his feet touching the linoleum. Yet, there was no weight on his legs. He concentrated on pressing into the floor, feeling pressure build in his feet and legs, but the moment he stopped thinking about it, the pressure vanished, leaving his feet on the floor but weightless. *How am I supposed to walk?* he wondered. That was a problem for later.
Scott looked over to the middle of the yard faintly illuminated by lights from neihboring houses. He spotted the dragon and its entourage still asleep in the backyard. He noticed new animals drifting toward the spot where he'd placed the flower concoction: a deer stepped through the trees, while bees and birds continued fly in. He craned his neck up throught he branches to check on Tober, then, thinking about spinning, he rotated, floating onto his back, gazing up at the treetop where Tober remained.
He the floated out past the branches he was hovering under. *Please don't let me float into the night sky,* he thought. He seemed to be able to control his ascent and descent. *What if this...this ability...runs out?* The fear of losing his newfound levitation before rescuing Tober, or worse, on the way down, quickened his breathing. He focused fiercely on Tober. Only when Tober was safely in his arms did he release a long held breath and look down at the backyard.
The backyard lights of several neighbors flickered on and off with motion sensors, revealing the cause: a slow drift of nocturnal creatures into his yard. The sleeping pile of animals had at least doubled since theyâd first settled down. *I wonder when this will wear off,* he thought. Then, remembering the possibility of the 'Fairey flight' ending, he consciously began to descend.
The world blurred around Scott as he carried Tober. Returning to Tober's room felt like drifting through a dream. As he settled Tober back into bed, the unsettling reality of his own levitation hit him. He had been flying through the house! Panic threatened to overwhelm him, but he forced himself to breathe slowly, channeling his fear into a bewildered fascination. A cool breeze wafted through the open window. He slammed it shut, locked it, pulled the curtains closed, and then looked at Tober. Gently lifting him again, he moved to the master bedroom, noting its abundance of windowsâa potential problem. He slowly spun, searching for a solution, and spotted the master bathroom window overlooking the backyard. The hall bathroom only had a tiny window. Then it struck him: the basement, windowless, with its couch in front of the old TV. He would have to carefully navigate the clutter on the top of the basement stairs while carrying Tober. He looked down at his feet, remembering his weightlessness, a significant problem, but one to address after ensuring Tober's safety for the night.
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First, Scott carefully "flew" Tober to the basement, tucking him into the couch with a clean comforter retrieved from the upstairs linen closet. Then, Scott stared at his floating feet. He focused on planting them firmly on the floor, and he felt the familiar pressureâbut the moment he looked away to check on Tober, he was floating again. He glanced at his phone: 10:47 PM. He'd created the Fairy Flight concoction around 10 PM, meaning this had lasted less than an hour. He floated back upstairs and peered into the backyard. The circle of slumbering animals had expanded, and he could see a portion of the black dragon's wing through the dense layer of birds and bees. How long had this been going on? Since 8 PM, perhaps? At least a couple of hours. Would it wear off by morning?Scott secured all doors and windows, then returned to the basement. He wedged a baseball bat between the basement door handle and the railing, a makeshift lock. He set his alarm for 4 AM, needing time to strategize: how to deal with the animals in his backyard before his neighbors awoke, and, more importantly, how to deal with his newfound ability to fly.
Hovering beside the couch where Tober slept, Scott fought to suppress the unsettling reality of his levitation. It was terrifying, yet wondrousâa monumental shift in his worldview. Did lapsed Presbyterians believe in flight? The practical implications were staggering. Waiting for the effects to wear off by morning seemed the only option, a decision he desperately clung to. Unlessâ¦the recipe brochure held more information. The thought unsettled him further.
Desperate to reverse his newfound ability to fly, Scott floated back upstairs to the kitchen, searching for the flashflowers.biz brochure. He found it easily enoughâthe recipes were on the back, but nothing beyond that. The front featured ads and marketing copy, but lacked contact information.
"Crap," he muttered.
Then, a thought struck him. He zoomed to his laptop, still open on the dining room table, and navigated to flashflowers.biz. The website offered flower parts for sale. He accessed his order history and found a customer support link, complete with FAQ, email address, and phone number. He tried the 800 number first, only to hear a recorded message stating that phone support was available Monday-Friday, 9-5 Mountain Time.
"Right, it's 2 AM," he sighed.
He clicked on the FAQ. It contained information on poisonous flowers (and a poison control hotline link!), a guide to measuring units (drams and pinches), and a flower strain substitution list. Under the recipes section, a disclaimer read: "All recipes provided are promotional examples of possible uses. The recipes themselves, unlike the flower parts, are not guaranteed effective and were submitted anonymously with no provision of support."
"What?!" Scott exclaimed.
He opened his Gmail account using the customer support email link and began composing a frantic email requesting further information on the recipes and their duration. He paused, realizing how utterly insane his email sounded, and decided against sending it. He looked up from his laptop.
"There has to be something else," he murmured.
His gaze swept across the kitchen. The flower parts packaging remained on the counter, along with the teapot, saucepan, and blender. As he floated, intending to clean up, he spotted a half-sheet of paper on the table's edgeâthe shipping receipt, delivered by Astral Push.
*That has to be a clue.*