ONCE THERE WAS a woman with a needle, and she needed the needle to be an oar. She felt it was, at its core, an oar, and had entered the world wrong-sized. On the edge of town was a wizard whose shelves were lined with spindly glass bottles packed with colorful potions. When the woman showed him the needle and asked for an oar, he nodded.
I see your point.
Do you?
I do.
It involved a sprinkling of powder, a nearly full moon, a lakeside, and her heart empty of fear. I can do that, she said, unsure.
Empty, he said. Wipe it clean.
