Edgar read over William's shoulder. He squinted, attempting to read over the spelling errors.

"Who's this Witherstone guy?" he asked. "You owe someone money?"

William let out a shaky sigh and stepped over to the desk, picking up a small slip of paper. He handed it to his agent.

"George T. Witherstone, dramatic props and magical apparel. Bill of goods . . . holy mackerel, kid!"

The young man cringed, as though getting scolded by his mother.

"Seven whoppers and a dime?!"

That's what the bill said—seven dollars and ten cents. Will nodded. His agent set the bill on the desk and put his forehead in his hand.

"Will, this is outrageous. You still haven't paid off your props?"

The young man shook his head.

"How could I, Edgar? I haven't had the money for weeks now!"

Edgar let out a whistle.

"Hoo boy. I thought you did that already."

Will cringed again, his guilt forming a lump in his throat.

"Edgar . . ." he said as his eyes wandered to the post card on the desk. "I've been thinking."

"Oh yeah? I can imagine you have, looking at this."

Will ignored the snarky retort.

"I . . . I've been having horrible luck here in New York, you see."

"Yeah?"

"And . . . well, I . . . I think it's time that I looked somewhere else. Somewhere to be somebody. To make my mark."

Edgar squinted. He noticed the postcard from California sitting on the faded wooden desk.

"Are you trying to avoid this debt?"

"No, no, that's not . . . well, not quite." It might have been a lie, maybe not. "If I move somewhere else, maybe I'll have better luck, you see? I might find a better life, with better pay."

Edgar suddenly held a cigar, and began to light it. He shook out the match and placed it in the ashtray on the desk.

"I guess that's reasonable," he said, furrowing his brow. He pointed to the postcard. "But that's an awfully long way off, and pretty different than the city."

William shook his head.

"I've lived here for three years, Edgar," he began. "Not once have my efforts as a magician been fruitful. I'm still struggling to manage my own finances, let alone to pay this bill. It may be time to move on."

Edgar took a drag on the cigar, filling William's nostrils with the smell of smoke.

"Just because of this debt, you're gonna . . . just up and leave like that?"

William could have sworn there was a softness in his agent's voice.

"I need the money, Edgar. I've looked everywhere for a decent job—a substantial one. And for three years; what good has that done me?"

"No, you're right, kiddo."

There was a brief pause between them. Edgar blew the cigar smoke up into the air. His thin eyes narrowed as a thought came to him.

"Kid," he started. "Tell you what . . ."

"Hm?"

"I'll pay some for you. No sweat. Just to hold the old man over; what do you say?"

William frowned.

"No, no, I wouldn't want you involved in this," William said. "It's far too much."

"I insist," Edgar said, reaching into his coat pocket. "Look, I got two dollars right here."

"Edgar . . ."

"Now, look, kid," the agent started as William pushed away the money. "I knew the day I met you that there's something real special deep down. I thought, 'That kid's got something'. I don't take clients easy, Will, but you've got potential; I can feel it."

Will couldn't help but smile.

"I'm gonna send you off to Cali, kid," the agent said suddenly. "Two dollars fer Witherstone, two for the ticket."

William could only shake his head more.

"Come, now, Edgar, you know that's far too much-"

"You don't need to worry 'bout that. Grab your stuff, kid."

Edgar was right; he didn't accept clients very often, but this had grown to be far more than a business relationship. The agent truly did care for the boy.

"Are you absolutely sure?" Will asked as his friend snapped open the vacant suitcase.

"When my mind's made up, there's no going back. Come on, let's get a move on, kid."
Eager, William began gathering his belongings.

"I'm coming, Jack," he mumbled happily.