I hop the front steps and ring the doorbell, the sound of laughter and 2000s pop music audible from within the McMansion. As the sound of footsteps approach, I readjust my grip on the covered pan of homemade buffalo cheese dip and the six pack of lagers I picked up from the microbrewery on the way over. The dish radiates warmth, a welcome feeling against my paw pads on a chilly winter evening, the last of the twilit sun already long gone behind the bare branches of the woods across the street leading to the neighborhood. My striped tail is pressed tightly against my body, providing extra comfort in addition to my winter coat and jeans. My raccoon fur does a decent job of keeping out the chill, but extra layers don’t hurt.

The door opens onto an atrium, unmuting the sound of a banger from high school that now plays on rotation in supermarkets and ads for medication, a development I try not to think about. A gray wolf stands in the open doorway wearing a baggy hoodie and jeans, arms stretched out, grinning ear to ear.

“Look who finally showed up! The man of the hour,” he exclaims, stepping to the side and theatrically bowing as I enter.

I roll my eyes, smiling. “You more excited to see me or the dip?”

He closes the door then rubs his hands together. “Is meeting Shakespeare more special than seeing one of his plays? How can I answer that?”

“You read the CliffsNotes of Shakespeare in Junior English, Patrick.”

He shrugs. “I read some of them for class. The ones with all the murder were fun, besides all the boring speeches.” Growing more serious, he claps me on the back and nods, taking the lagers. “Good to see you, man. It’s been too long. Hey guys!” he calls down a carpeted staircase. “Brian’s here!”

“BS!” two voices answer in unison.

I chuckle despite myself and follow Patrick down the stairs, eyeing the framed concert posters on the way down.

“So how’s Melissa doing?” he asks.

“Good. Our five-year anniversary is coming up in a few weeks and I’ve got something special planned that I hope she likes.”

“I’m sure she will, man. You’ve always been good at that thoughtful planning stuff.”

The steps open up to a man cave with all the accoutrements we would have killed for as kids. Multiple TVs for watching concurrent sports or playing retro games on a LAN. A sound system, with speakers embedded in a ceiling low enough to touch. Shelves filled with movies, video games, board games, and general nerdy ephemera. A pool table, foosball table, and arcade machine. A card table. And, to top it all off, a kitchenette stocked with beers and snacks.

A fox and a mountain lion are huddled around the foosball table, eyes locked on the spinning plastic soccer players and zooming black-and-white ball in total concentration. The fox, Marcus, is wearing a sweater and slacks, sweat from the exertion of the game dotting his glasses. The mountain lion, Will, wears a light jacket and jeans, fangs bared in concentration.

It feels like stepping back in time, the four of us being here.

Once a blue moon, when the stars align, when the very foundations of the heavens are moved… Okay, I exaggerate, but it’s harder than you think to coordinate a get-together with four guys in their thirties when you throw in spouses, kids, jobs, and all the obligations that come with life. At a point, it starts to feel like scheduling a dentist appointment six months out. But when we get the chance to get together again, it feels like we’re picking up on a conversation spanning back to when we were teenagers, like no time has passed at all. Wives and girlfriends might complain that we don’t talk about anything important, that we never come away from these hangouts with any vital information like the health of family members or details of jobs or life events, but nights like these are almost like a bubble, unaffected by the passage of time.

“Hey, BS,” Marcus says, not looking up from the match.

“Bri, nice seein’ you,” Will says. “Well, I’ll actually see you in a minute as soon as this idiot regrets not upping his glasses prescription.”

Patrick and I walk to the kitchenette, where he has a hot pan ready for the dip. He sets the lagers on the counter and we both take one. I can’t help but laugh at the game in progress, watching the combatants flail at the handles with no hint of strategy. The ball clatters past Marcus’s goalie and rolls away, Will letting out a victorious roar and pounding his chest like he’s won a major competition. Marcus shakes his head in mock disgust and readjusts his glasses, joining Patrick and I in the kitchenette and grabbing a lager. After doing a victory lap around the man cave, Will jogs over as well, still pumped up from his win.

We set about uncovering dishes and making plates, migrating to sit down at the card table and catch up on life as we eat. Patrick is playing host tonight, and on most get-togethers, since he has the most space for it. A probable lifelong bachelor, he works a high-paying finance job he got through connections with a booster to the college football program when he was on scholarship. The pay grants him a comfortable life, one where he can create the kind of home his younger self would have loved. When he’s not working, he scouts antique shops, thrift stores, and estate sales for any kind of knick-knacks that strike his fancy at the moment, giving his home a look that walks the line between maximalism and hoarding.

Will is married and has two daughters, and his family is just as energetic as he is, nearly every waking moment spent in sports, extracurriculars, hiking, and general outdoorsmanship. Marcus was always the quiet one in school, a thoughtful fox who liked reading fantasy novels and playing solo RPGs. He found a girlfriend who perfectly matches his demeanor, and the pair enjoys their childfree life at home on most nights, content to read in silence beside one another. Getting Marcus to talk feels like pulling teeth at times, but he’s a loyal friend who always steps up when anyone needs a hand.

“How’s life been treating you, BS?” Will asks, dipping a tortilla chip into the buffalo dip.

“A new kind of BS, unfortunately,” I reply, running a hand through my hair. “Melissa pointed out that I’m starting to get a bald spot. I hadn’t noticed before. Getting old sucks.”

“My brother takes a medication for that,” Patrick interjects. “He still looks fine.” He jumps a little, wincing. “Not to say you can’t look fine otherwise. ‘Bald is beautiful’ too, like they say, if that’s a route you want to take.”

I shrug. “I’ve looked into the treatments, and they’re all either too expensive or have the kind of symptoms I’d rather not deal with. I don’t know, I could be rocking a new look soon.”

“You’re a handsome devil either way,” Will says. “Bald Saunders has a decent ring to it.”

I should address the BS thing. My initials are B.S. for Brian Saunders, a fact that went unexamined through most of childhood until some classmates connected the dots in middle school, at which point it became my nickname. For an introverted child who very much did not like being the center of attention and was warned against ‘bad words’, being stuck with the moniker was a nightmare. That is, until this friend group turned it on its head.

Cool drawing! And that’s no BS.

I like the shirt, no BS.

The party doesn’t start until BS gets here, and that’s no BS.

“Follicle matters aside, there’s a reason why I wanted to get us all together, aside from your charming company,” Patrick says, standing up. He walks to a nearby bookshelf, where he picks up a cardboard box and carries it to the table under his arm. “Found something at an estate sale I want you all to see.”

The box is plain and unassuming, clearly a delivery box from an online shopping site. Patrick opens the top, revealing a host of packing peanuts which he digs through to pick up a smaller box made of wood, a yellow folded paper taped to its side. He knocks the cardboard box to the floor and theatrically sets the wooden box on the table. The rest of us exchange glances.

“I really hope there’s an even smaller box inside that one,” Will says.

“Even better,” Patrick replies, picking up and unfolding the paper. “Estate sales can be super hit or miss these days, usually more junk than jewels, but occasionally you can find good stuff if you’re there bright and early, especially if the family just wants to get rid of whatever was lying around. Which is what I think led to this.” He clears his throat and reads from the paper. “The bowl within makes real the deepest wishes of the heart, often those unthought and unarticulated. Take the greatest care, as only four wishes are granted every hundred years, and only one per person, at the slightest of touches.” Patrick sets the paper down, grinning broadly. “How cool is that? The thing was in a pile of boxes all jumbled up together, so it’s safe to say the family didn’t bother to read the note before slapping a price tag on it. The writing is really old, too, so you know it’s legit.”

“Or an old gag gift,” I reply. “Just because someone writes something doesn’t mean it’s real.”

“Only one way to find out,” Patrick replies, rubbing his hands together. “After I found it and read the note, it got me thinking. If this thing really can grant wishes, who would I want to share it with? The three greatest guys in the world, of course.” His face grows serious. “And I mean that, by the way. No BS.”

“You’re the best, man,” Marcus says, his first words in a while, a thin smile on his face. “I’m down to get lead poisoning together, or whatever this thing will do.”

“That’s the spirit,” Patrick says, opening the box. The three of us lean forward as Patrick reaches in and picks up a clear glass container with a cork stopper on top. The aforementioned bowl resides within, of a blue jade color that looks like a museum piece. It isn’t pulsing, the lights in the man cave don’t flash, and there’s no bodiless whispering all of a sudden. It looks like just a regular bowl, albeit an old one.

Patrick looks at each of us in turn. “Any takers to try it out first?”

Will shakes his head and crosses his arms. “You bought it, you get the honors. Plus, I need to know if you’ll explode or something first before I touch some magic object.”

“Your concern for my safety is inspiring,” Patrick replies. With a flourish, he uncorks the top and slowly reaches inside the glass container. The rest of us are dead silent, all joking forgotten at this moment of truth. His fingers graze the lip of the bowl, running along its surface. He pulls his hand back out, looking down at himself and around the room. “Hmm, no supermodel running down here to feed me burritos. I guess it was a bust after all. I-”

Patrick sits down hard, sucking in a breath, eyes growing wide. The rest of us leap up, Marcus and I rushing to his side, Will stepping a few paces back.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” I ask. “If you’re doing some bit, I’ll-”

Patrick slowly looks up, a smile growing. “Nothing hurts,” he whispers. Pushing the seat back, he stands up and does a tentative lunge to the side. He lets out a yelp of triumph and starts doing jumping jacks, pushups, even a cartwheel before he tumbles onto the floor in a heap, laughing.

Will, Marcus, and I exchange worried glances. “Do we need to call you an ambulance or something?” I ask.

Patrick sits up, wiping away tears. “Guys, I haven’t been able to do hardly any of that since I got hurt playing football. My knees, my joints, the constant pain, it’s all gone! God, I feel like I’m twenty again.”

“I’m not ruling out lead poisoning, but did you check that thing for radiation before you touched it?” Will asks from across the room.

Patrick leaps upright from his sitting position, his body a flood of movement. He throws his arms around Marcus and I, hugging us tight. “Who’s next?! You’ve got to try this thing.”

Will shakes his head and approaches the table. “This is probably a mistake, but what the hell.” He reaches in with a quick, fluid motion and wraps a hand around the bowl, his paw larger than the surface. He flexes his hand a few times then lets go, pulling his arm back. Silence ensues as he crosses his arms and taps a toe, looking bored. “Well, I’m not acting crazy, so clearly Patrick is just messing with-”

A chorus of electronic dings resounds from Will’s pocket. He pulls out his phone, brows furrowed, and holds up a finger. “Just a minute, guys. Got some spam I need to-” His eyes grow wide and the phone slides out of his hand, clattering to the floor. Scrambling, he drops to his knees, breathing hard, and manages to bat around his phone a few times before finding a grip and lifting the screen to his face. “I-it’s my bank account. There’s-”

“Damn, did someone get a hold of your account?” Patrick asks. “Call your bank’s fraud department and they can-”

Will waves him away. “No, it’s nothing like that.” He slowly looks up with a thousand yard stare. “There’s… more money in my account than I could ever earn in a lifetime. I-it’s enough to pay for the girls’ college, bachelor’s through PhD. Enough that Sandra won’t have to work nights anymore. Enough that… I don’t have to work anymore. I can make music, like I always wanted to do.” He holds up his phone, screen facing outward, beckoning us to look.

Marcus and I exchange glances and approach. As soon as I see the number, despite the screen shaking, I feel lightheaded and have to look away. I can hardly conceive that amount of money. Setting a mountain of dollar bills on fire would still leave more than enough to spend over three lifetimes. Thick silence follows and we all sit on the floor, wide-eyed, the strength gone from our bodies. As one, we turn to glance at the bowl within the glass container sitting on the table.

“What exactly did you find?” Marcus asks.

Patrick stands up, smiling. “Two wishes left, gents. Who’s next?”

“Wait, hold on,” Marcus says, throwing up his arms, placating, “what if… I don’t know if I’m convinced. Will, it’s possible to change the appearance of a banking website without any money actually being exchanged. Scammers can modify HTML on the fly to make it look like there’s more money than there actually is. A-and there are glitches and fraudulent transactions all the time. Maybe someone misplaced that money.”

Will shakes his head. “It’s all there, in my banking app and in my alerts. And what about Patrick? I haven’t seen him move like that in years.”

Marcus glances at Patrick. “Some drugs can make you feel invincible and euphoric, believing with absolute certainty that what you’re experiencing is real. I’m happy that you’re happy, Patrick, but have you… I don’t know.”

Patrick gestures at the table. “Only one way to find out for yourself.”

I sniff the air, not totally convinced that there isn’t some kind of gas leak. The idea of a bowl purchased at some estate sale granting wishes is just too strange to consider.

Marcus sighs, rubbing his temples. “Did you guys… What did you actually wish for, as bizarre as that is to say out loud?”

Patrick shrugs. “I didn’t wish for anything, not actively, at least. I just touched it, then bam no pain.”

“Money’s been tight and everything is getting more expensive,” Will says. “I’m stressed out of my mind trying to be a good provider, husband, father. I didn’t wish for anything either. Hell, I only touched it in the first place to prove Patrick a liar. What did that note say again? Something about the deepest wishes of the heart? Maybe we don’t have to even think it; it knows what we need and grants it.”

Marcus looks at me, expectant. I shake my head and gesture to the table. “Go right ahead.” He stands up and approaches, his movements slow and deliberate like he’s trying to sneak up on a wild animal. With the bowl within reach, he pauses and removes his glasses, wiping them with a microfiber cloth from his pocket before putting them back on again.

“You definitely need a new prescription if you can’t see it that close,” Will says.

“Shut up, it’s a nervous tic,” Marcus replies. “If you’re that concerned, you’re buying my next pair, Mr. Moneybags.”

“Fair enough.”

Marcus takes a deep breath then reaches into the glass container and touches the bowl, his fingers lingering for a few seconds. Withdrawing his hand, he turns around and eyes the room, expression blank. The rest of us exchange glances.

“Is anything dif-” Before Patrick can complete that sentence, Marcus vanishes so suddenly and completely it’s as though he has blinked out of existence. We stare at one another in shocked silence, then scramble around the man cave.

“What the hell?!” Will exclaims. “Did he teleport? Go back in time? Wait, freeze, guys! What if he shrunk himself? We might step on him!”

“Why would he wish to shrink himself?” I ask, my voice shaky, taking care not to step anywhere near where Marcus last stood.

“I don’t know! Did he think he was too tall, even if he’s not that tall to begin with?”

“Hey guys,” Marcus says, casually walking down the stairs. His hands are in his pant pockets, a sly grin on his face.

“Dude, what the hell happened?” Will asks. “We thought you shrank yourself!”

“I didn’t think that, but it’s a good question,” Patrick says.

As Marcus reaches the bottom step, in the blink of an eye, he is suddenly seated at the table sipping his drink.

“You… wished for teleportation?” Patrick asks, disbelieving.

Marcus shakes his head. “I can freeze time. To everyone else, it looks like I’m teleporting, but that’s just because I’m moving when time is stopped. Check this out.” He reveals a wristwatch, and I pull out my phone to check the time. Sure enough, the time on my phone is lagging nearly a minute behind his watch. He also takes out his phone and opens the camera app, showing us multiple videos and pictures he took while the rest of us were frozen, immobile, scrambling to find him.

“My head hurts,” Will says, grabbing his forehead. “This is like something out of a movie. You’re totally going to use this to cheat at foosball now.”

Marcus leans back in his chair, hands folded in his lap, expression distant. “There’s never enough time,” he mutters. “All the books I want to read, all the hobbies I want to pick up, it’s a game of deciding what to put off either for now or for good. You guys feel it too, right? My earliest memories through age ten felt like a lifetime, but twenty-two to thirty-two has gone by in a flash. I wanted to try my hand at painting six years ago, but there are only so many hours in a day and only so many hobbies you can do. Taking up painting would have meant dropping something else. Now, I don’t have to choose. I can do it all, and a second won’t go by.”

We stand in silence as the implications sink in. As one, we each reach for another drink. “I came here to hang out with friends and maybe play some video games,” I say. “Not for an existential crisis.”

“Maybe a wish can lighten that load for you, BS,” Patrick says. “You’re the last one up.”

I look at my friends and can hardly believe how this visit has gone. If I had any remaining doubts about the bowl’s power, Marcus’s wish completely obliterated them. What could my heart’s deepest wish possibly be? Life is reasonably good and Melissa and I are happy. I don’t have any big stressors, not any that I can think of at the moment.

One… possible wish comes to mind, something I thought was dead and buried. No, I compartmentalized you years ago. I already accepted my peace and grieved you. Life is fine right now. I’m managing without you.

My heart starts to race and the room begins to spin. I take deep breaths and slowly back up. “I… I don’t know, you guys. This is all a bit much. Maybe- do you have someone else in mind? I think I’m good.”

Patrick, Will, and Marcus exchange confused glances. “You good, man?” Patrick asks.

“Yeah, just fine. I just… I don’t know.”

“Hey, none of us understand this any more than you do,” Will says. “But it’s just answering what your heart wants. You guys are great, I hope you know that, but I am pumped to go home to give Chelsea the good news and see her and the girls. This will change our lives, BS! I’m sure it’ll do the same for you.”

The room stops spinning. “Yeah, you’re right.”

They step aside and I approach the mysterious, wish-granting bowl. I haven’t even wanted that in years. This thing knows, right? The heart’s deepest wish. The heart’s deepest wish…

I reach into the glass container and touch the bowl. Its surface is cool and smooth against my fingers. As I withdraw my hand, I feel a pull of energy start in my fingers and begin coursing through my body. I stagger backward, grimacing. Nothing like this happened to the others. Beneath my thick winter clothing I feel myself begin to change. Starting at my scalp, the thinning hair follicles grow back in, thick and strong, cascading down my shoulders and the small of my back in stylish curls, years of growth in seconds. My body feels as though it is molding clay beneath the fingers of an unknown sculptor, taking the flesh from one part and moving it to another. The bones and flesh of my face are contoured into a shape I cannot see. My chest grows, my waist constricts, my hips flare out. Down and down, changes take place, like the briefest snowfall in the mountainous peaks leading to thunderous avalanches down in a valley.

As the changes to my body cease, the changes to my clothing begin. My winter coat, a dull gray, conjoins with my blue jeans to form one solid article of clothing from neck to ankle. The sleeves move up my arms to stop near my shoulders, revealing bare arms slimmer than before. The neck extends downward, further than I feel comfortable with, stopping to form a neckline and bodice that expose my upper chest and collarbones. The rest of the former coat material constricts against my torso, hugging my new curves, changing from gray to a soft blue.

My jeans meld together into one solid skirt, the material shifting from light blue denim to a midnight blue satin, the hemline extending to reach the floor and billow like a veritable train. My phone, keys, and wallet fall to the floor as my pockets disappear. My tennis shoes morph into heels, short enough that I don’t topple over from inexperience, but enough to add some height. I grunt as twin pinpricks of pain touch my earlobes, then feel the weight of dangling earrings. A golden necklace containing a sapphire appears around my neck, hanging low. White opera gloves appear on my hands, extending up to my upper arms.

The energy fades, leaving me standing in a massive ballroom gown, very much out of place in a cluttered man cave. I slowly look down at myself, panting, lightheaded, taking in the shimmering, soft fabric and the new shape of my changed body.

“Hey… Bri? You, uh- This is… Hmm,” Patrick mutters.

I look up to see the three of them standing on the other side of the table, slack-jawed, eyes wide. My cheeks redden and I cross my arms over my chest, wanting to disappear within the sea of fabric. I smile and start to cry at the same time, the conflicting emotions enough to make my head spin. I am a woman. The simple thought is as refreshing and invigorating as a drink of water on a hot day, and just as life-giving. It’s like I’m living in my own skin after playing a character all my life. Every sensation, every breath, is like I’m experiencing it for the first time. I am finally me.

“I tried so hard to forget,” I say, my voice a series of chokes. “To make the most of the body I had, even if it didn’t feel… I could make do, try to be a man, do the things I was supposed to do.” I wipe away the tears rolling down my cheeks, my gloves getting wet. “I accepted that this could never happen. I have a family, I have friends; they would never love me if I did this.”

My vision blurs and I sob heavily, disconsolate, perfectly aware that this display of emotion simply isn’t supposed to happen in front of friends. I want to escape, to disappear, but how quickly can I leave when moving in a ballroom gown for the first time? I finally have the body I always wanted, the sense of self I never thought possible, but what will I lose in the process? My lifelong friends? My family? My job? Every human connection I’ve ever made?

Arms wrap around me, big and strong and warm. Blinking away the haze of tears, I see Patrick, Will, and Marcus standing over me, covering me in a massive wall of humanity.

“If this is your wish, I couldn’t be happier for you, Bri. And that’s no BS.” Patrick says. Will and Marcus murmur similar words of affirmation, the vibration of their voices running through my body like a subwoofer, resonant and comforting.

I start to cry again, this time with joy. I have what I always wanted and for so long denied myself, and my friends accept me regardless. A minute or an hour later, they pull away and I wipe the tears, snot, and mucus away, my pristine white gloves now a collage of black, yellow, and off-white. Will pulls out a chair and gestures me to sit. I hobble over, not used to heels, collecting my skirts to try not to trod and trip over them. Collapsing into the seat, I sigh deeply, sniffling.

“I never knew,” Patrick says, picking up the fallen contents of my pockets and setting them on the table. “All these years, all the conversations, and I had no idea. If I ever did anything or acted in a way that made you not comfortable to be yourself, I’m sorry.”

I shake my head. “I tried so hard to hide it from myself, too, to be just a normal guy.” For the first time, post-transformation, I notice my new voice, high and soft like a songbird’s call. It’s nice. “Do you remember senior prom?” After some blank looks, I continue. “I didn’t go. I didn’t have a date anyway and just told people the Monday afterward that I got sick. But, to tell the truth, I didn’t want to be around the girls there. I knew they would look so nice in their dresses, their hair perfect, the corsages all in place, and I… Knowing I could never do that was too much to deal with. I hardly made it through that weekend. I tried so hard to bury those feelings after that.”

“Is that what… this is about?” Will asks, gesturing at my dress.

I shrug. “Maybe? I don’t know. This is way more feminine than I ever imagined I wanted to look. I can hardly move in the damn thing either. Not practical at all.”

“It does make you look beautiful, though,” Patrick says with a smile. “So, props to the magic bowl for the execution.”

My heart flutters. That word is meant for other people, other things. A sunset, a waterfall, a meadow in summertime. Could such a word ever apply to me? I pick up my phone and open the camera app, turning it to selfie mode. I can’t help but gasp at the sight, watching as this new woman matches my movements. The face is familiar, the same one I’ve seen in the mirror for years when getting ready in the morning. But enough details are subtly different—the shape of my nose, my chin, the cheeks, the brows—that I look like a different person. Not a total stranger, though. Some of the details remind me of sepia-tinged photos of my mom when she was my age, a thought I don’t quite know how to process.

“Would it be too much to ask for a change of clothes for the drive home?” I ask Patrick. “I don’t think this is winter appropriate, and I sure don’t want to be wearing this when-” I gasp, eyes growing wide. “Melissa. How am I going to explain this? She doesn’t know- I never told her that I-”

As I begin to spiral, Patrick sets a firm hand on my shoulder. “Hey, it’s alright man, er, woman. We’re your friends, and this doesn’t change anything with us. Melissa is a good woman with a good head on her shoulders. She’s the love of your life and your best friend, though that last part stings in present company. She wants you to be happy, right? I think she’ll understand.”

I nod. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s, wow, it’s still going to be hard.”

Moments tick by in silence.

“So is ‘Bri’ off the table now, or how do you want to handle that?” Will asks. “For God’s sake, you better keep B as the first letter so BS can live. I’ll never forgive you if you lose the nickname.”

“A new ‘BS’ applies now, I think,” Marcus interjects. “Bombshell, I’d say.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s nice of you, but I don’t think I can handle this much niceness from you guys. It feels weird.”

“No reason to play any more multiplayer matches, since you play like a girl now and will definitely lose,” Patrick says, smiling.

“There it is, thank God,” I reply with a deep sigh. “I whupped your butts in CoD4 back in high school and I’m not about to let that change. Hand me a damn controller.”