Across the city, Maryanne Tomson, mother of two, tried to reach her son. Like many other things Maryanne tried to do, she failed.Earlier that day, they had fought. It was one of the worst fights they’d had in years, all over some silly little hat. Devon, her son, had spent an ungodly sum on something that he’d likely wear once and then put away in a closet somewhere. Three hundred dollars wasted to sit on a shelf and never be used again. A silly, stupid purchase. And after she had made her feelings known, her own son chose the hat over their family. She had cried. There was no shame in admitting it. Did their family mean so little to him? Did she mean so little to him?Maryanne cried and prayed all that morning. When the crying wouldn’t stop, and the prayers didn’t work, she turned to her greatest refuge—sleep. Many women her age struggle with sleep, but Maryanne had always been a dreamer. In the days that she used to have friends, they would all complain about their various sleepi

Devon picked up the phone as it vibrated, looking at it. “More of Neveah’s bullshit, I’m sure.”But what if it wasn’t?Maybe it really was Momma reaching out to apologize—or at least talk. But what would he say?Buzz-buzz. Buzz-buzzGripping his lips, he picked up the phone. “Hello?”ClickWhoever was on the other line hung up. “Goddamnit. Neveah probably has Momma’s phone again… the snake.” He tossed his phone on the bed and refused to look at it, at least until dinner. There were more important things to do—first of which being a long shower. Devon stripped down and tested turned the faucet tap. A spray of steaming hot water blasted out with such force that Devon almost leapt back. Dozens of thin streams hissed from the shower-head, each with enough pressure to clean the dirt out from between tile grouting. Devon swept his hand underneath the stream—wonderful, cool pressure dug gently into his skin. “That is—ooh!” Devon grinned. It was by far the nicest shower he had ever used.

Far away from New Hudson, across an ocean and a desert in the Royal City of Zhabai, Sayid bin-Osman al-Jirafi sat upon a couch in his office smoking a shisha pipe. Trails of cold smoke poured from his nose as he flipped through his working tablet, poring over reams of data—taxes and fees and the dozen streams of income flowing towards his private monetary sea. He drew in a puff of smoke and poured out a ring the size of a famous New Hudson bagel. The thick ring sailed like a round little ship over to the plate-glass windows overlooking the Royal City below. He imagined that his donut could be strong enough to sail down from his tower and float atop one of Zhabai’s many golden spire, settling like like a well-thrown ring of solid cloud.Sadly, this was just a thought of fancy, and the ring broke apart on the window in trails of smoke. Sayid stroked his beard. The bagel-sized ring remained him of New Hudson, where Cousin Ali was out living his moronic fantasies of becoming a magician

Putting his first stop into the hands of fate, Ali’s finger stopped: FANTASY AUTHOR PANEL—4:30pm, Grand BallroomFine. That would be his first stop. Ali went to the mirror and checked his costume—in fact, it was not a costume, but one of his formal outfits for festivals and holidays. The jewels on his vest glittered brightly beneath the mirror lamp. He gave his vest a little tug and straightened his cap—small desert cat fitted with a falcon’s feather and emblazoned with gold filigree.I look like a PrinceHe checked his watch, also the watch of a prince, a platinum timepiece crusted with diamonds and a cluster of sapphires and topaz. The face of the timepiece was a collection of colored magnetic sand which emerged from the face like stones bubbling from a still pool. The sand grains slowly flipped to read 4:13.He could still make it if he hurried. But what about Zadik? He should tell him where he was going, at least…“No. It will be fine,” Ali s

“Culture. Is. Not. A Costume.” Tamyra clapped her hands to the beat of her words in front of the man’s face. He flinched at every clap. “Let me say it louder for those in the back: CULTURE. IS NOT. A FUCKING. COSTUME.” The crowd nodded, thoughtfully. It was a shame, but it couldn’t be helped. The young man should have known better, and this was the result. A few of them had their phones out, recording as the young man stammered at the bring of tears. Really? They were going to just let this kid get pilloried?Devon bit down on his lip. Sure, his costume was gaudy, but that didn’t mean that he should get surrounded and berated like this. To make matter worse, not a single person in the crowd, or even the event organizers, were willing to do anything. Out in the corner of his eye, Devon saw one of the organizers—the same rail-thin young man from earlier—clutching his tablet for dear life, his eyes cast to the ground in secondhand shame.“Now it’s your turn, appropriator. Say it wit