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John stood. Fizz hovered close by his ear, whispering ten ridiculous wishes ("A flock of obedient goats. A sack that makes more sacks. A comb that fixes your hair by faith alone."). John smiled and shut his eyes anyway. He made a wish he didn't tell. He didn't wish for power or gold or revenge or even safety. He wished for people—for this to last, for it to repeat, for it to become the kind of trouble that follows you on purpose.
He opened his eyes, took the knife, and cut.
"Speech!" Pim yelled at once, mouth already sugared. "Short!"
John cleared his throat. "Thank you," he said—and then stopped, because the word felt too small. He tried again. "I thought… I thought birthdays were for other people. And now I think maybe I was wrong about that." He looked at Fizz. "Mostly because a certain criminal made it impossible for me to hide."
Fizz wiped at an imaginary tear. "I am the law," he sniffed. "The law of cake."
