The euphoria of being 'the chosen one' lasted for approximately thirty minutes before it crashed headlong into the harsh reality of logistics. Leo, CEO of Interdimensional Enterprises, stood in his kitchenette and assessed his startup capital. It consisted of two empty two-liter soda bottles, a cloudy plastic milk jug he'd rinsed out, and a glass spaghetti sauce jar that still faintly smelled of garlic.
This was pathetic. But it was a start.
"Okay, chosen one," he muttered to himself, grabbing the assortment of containers. "Time to go to work."
His heart hammered as he approached the bathroom door. This was different from his previous trips. Before, he was an accidental tourist. Now, he was on a mission. A water heist. Operation Aquarius, he decided, because it sounded official and dramatic.
He twisted the knob and pulled. The familiar, breathtaking vista of the twilight forest greeted him. Taking a deep breath of that clean, pollen-scented air, he stepped through, his empty bottles clanking together with a sound that felt profane in the sacred quiet.
He decided to return to the location from the warehouse portal—the glade with the gurgling stream. He didn't actually know if he could choose the destination, but he pictured it clearly in his mind as he stood on the mossy threshold. He stepped forward.
It worked. He was standing in the clearing with the sunset-colored flowers. The stream was just ahead. A wave of giddiness washed over him. He had mental GPS to Narnia. Add that to the list of powers.
Kneeling by the stream, he looked into the water. It was clearer than any water he had ever seen, flowing over smooth, grey-and-purple stones. There was no sediment, no algae, no sign of pollution. It looked... polished. He dipped the spaghetti sauce jar in, filling it to the brim. The water didn't even have a reflection; it was so transparent it was like looking through a lens of pure air.
One by one, he filled his pathetic containers. The plastic milk jug, the two soda bottles, and the now-very-clean-smelling spaghetti jar. It was clumsy work. He sloshed water on his jeans and the mossy bank, feeling like an idiot. Here he was, in a magical realm of untold wonder, and his grand first act was bottling water like he was preparing for a hurricane.
Carting it back was even more awkward. He couldn't carry it all at once. He had to ferry his bounty, two containers at a time, back through the portal and place them on his grimy kitchen counter. The sight was surreal: four containers of impossibly pure, otherworldly water sitting next to a stack of instant ramen packets and a bottle of dollar-store dish soap.
Now came the hard part. The sales pitch.
He screwed the caps on tight and headed for the door, leaving two bottles behind. He'd start small. He grabbed the full milk jug and one of the soda bottles and marched out of his building, his stomach churning with nerves.
His target was Kim's Corner Mart, a tiny, cramped bodega two blocks away. It was run by Mr. Kim, a perpetually unimpressed man in his sixties who had seen everything the neighborhood could throw at him and had judged all of it to be lacking. He was Leo's best bet.
The bell on the door chirped as Leo entered. The store smelled of stale coffee, cleaning supplies, and cardboard. Mr. Kim was behind the counter, reading a Korean newspaper and pointedly ignoring him.
"Uh... hi, Mr. Kim," Leo started, his voice cracking slightly.
Mr. Kim lowered his paper just enough to peer over the top of his reading glasses. "Leo. You need to put something on credit again? The answer is no."
"No! No, nothing like that," Leo said quickly, placing the milk jug and the bottle on the counter. The pristine water inside seemed to glow under the shop's flickering fluorescent light. "I... I have a business proposition for you."
Mr. Kim's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "A 'business proposition' from a boy who bought a single roll of toilet paper with his debit card last week. This should be good."
"This is artisanal spring water," Leo said, trying to sound confident. The word 'artisanal' felt strange and foreign in his mouth. "From a... a private, high-altitude spring. Upstate. Super pure. The best stuff."
Mr. Kim leaned forward and squinted at the milk jug. He tapped the plastic with a skeptical finger. "This is a milk jug, Leo."
"It's... rustic. Eco-friendly! I'm reusing materials."
"It's a used milk jug," Mr. Kim deadpanned. He unscrewed the cap of the soda bottle and sniffed it cautiously, as if expecting the scent of poison. He seemed surprised. "No smell." He then, to Leo's shock, dipped a pinky finger in and touched it to his tongue.
His expression didn't change, but his eyes widened fractionally. For a full ten seconds, he was silent.
"It's just water," he finally said, though the conviction in his voice was slightly less solid than before.
"It's the best water you've ever tasted," Leo pressed, his desperation mounting. "Look, just... try it. Sell it. People buy water. Fancy water. Put a sign on it. 'Local Artisan Spring Water.' You can charge... five dollars a bottle!"
Mr. Kim let out a snort that was somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. "Five dollars for tap water in a soda bottle? Are you insane? Your customers would riot."
"Two dollars then!" Leo pleaded. "Just try it. One dollar for the jug, two for the bottle."
Mr. Kim stroked his chin, his shrewd businessman's brain clearly calculating angles Leo couldn't even see. He looked from Leo's desperate face to the impossibly clear water, then back again. He could probably smell the rock-bottom opportunity.
"One dollar. For the big one," he stated, pointing at the milk jug. "And fifty cents for the little one. And I'm taking a risk. This water is probably illegal."
Leo's heart sank. A dollar fifty? His grand business venture? But then he thought of the limitless supply sitting on the other side of his bathroom door. This was pure profit.
"Okay," Leo said, trying not to sound too eager. "Okay, deal."
Mr. Kim grunted, pulled open his ancient cash register, and extracted a worn-out dollar bill and two quarters. He pushed the money across the counter.
Leo stared at the cash. One dollar and fifty cents. It wasn't life-changing money. It wasn't even pizza money. But he had just made it out of nothing. He had walked into another dimension, taken something that was free, and converted it into tangible, spendable, US currency.
He scooped up the money, the coins cool and heavy in his palm. It was the most satisfying dollar fifty he had ever earned.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Kim," he said, a real grin spreading across his face.
Mr. Kim just grunted and went back to his newspaper. "Don't bring me any more milk jugs, boy. Find some real bottles."
Leo practically floated out of the store. He stood on the sidewalk, looking at the crumpled bill and the two quarters in his hand.
It worked. It actually, legitimately worked.
He had a business. A stupid, insane, magical, water-smuggling business. And it was going to save his life.