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shelf is still just a little too high for me to grab hold of the box without risking it crashing onto my head. I consider dragging the elaborately painted trunk that holds my Seeker tools over to the closet so I can climb on top and retrieve the box, but then I think better.
    Deciding to use some of the magick I’ve been practicing, the telekinesis I’ve been working to hone, I focus hard on the box. Employing Paloma’s advice to think from the end, claiming it’s magick’s second most important ingredient, coming just after intent .
    “The universe will work out the details,” she’d said. “The most important thing you can do is to state your intention, then envision the result as though it’s already done.”
    So instead of imaging the box lifting from the shelf and drifting lightly to the floor as I used to, I imagine it already secured at my feet. Only to watch as it launches itself from the shelf and crashes hard to the ground. Guess I still have a few telekinetic kinks to work out.
    I glance toward the door, hoping Paloma didn’t hear the commotion and won’t choose to investigate. Then I drop beside the old box and open the flaps. Instantly overcome by a whiff of dust, must, and a deeper earthier aroma of spice, mesquite, and a few other unnamed scents I’ve come to associate with this place.
    I riffle through the contents. Skimming past an old hand-knit sweater I reject at first sight, an old flannel shirt worn nearly to death, a pile of yellowing T-shirts that used to be white … until I come across a black down jacket that might be a bit on the big side but will definitely serve the purpose I need.
    About to close the box back up and return it to its place, I notice a pile of papers lining the bottom and decide to go through those too. Finding an old report card of Django’s, with A’s in Spanish and PE, a B+ in English, and C’s in both history and science, I rock back on my heels and smooth my fingers across the crinkled page. Shuttering my eyes as I try to picture how he was back then—a good-looking guy with a nose like mine—an average student headed for a-not-so average destiny he just couldn’t face.
    I set the report card aside and dig a little deeper. Feeling oddly guilty for prying but equally eager for anything I can get, I read everything. More report cards, class schedules, a folded-up note from a girl named Maria, who was obviously into him if the string of small hearts lining the edges are anything to go by. Eventually coming to the note he left for Paloma the day he ran away, having no idea his journey would be both tragic and short. That not long after arriving in California, he’d fall hard for my mom and impregnate her, only to end up decapitated on a busy LA freeway well before she could break the news.
    I take a deep breath, unable to keep my hands from shaking when I read:
    Mama,
    By the time you read this, I will be well on my way, and though you’ll be tempted to come after me, I’m begging you to please let me be.
    I’m sorry for any disappointment and pain that I’ve caused. It was never my intention to hurt you. I am lucky to have such a kind, loving, and supportive mother, and I hope you’ll understand that my leaving has nothing to do with you as a person.
    This place is closing in on me. I can’t take it anymore. I need to get far away—go to a place where nobody knows me.
    Where the visions can’t find me.
    You speak of destiny and fate—but I believe in free will. The destiny I choose is one that happens in a place far from here.
    I’ll be in touch when I settle.
     
    Love,
    Your Django
    I read the note again.
    And then again.
    And after reading it so many times I’ve lost count, I fold it up neatly, slip it back toward the bottom, and return the box to its place.
    Then I drag on my dad’s old down jacket and explore all the pockets. Inching to the edge of each seam, stopping when I discover something small and smooth, with a surprising amount of heft