Mr. Brown wasn’t happy; he wasn’t happy at all. He kept checking the numbers for the auction and they weren’t where they expected them to be; they weren’t where he needed them to be. He didn’t understand. The dolls were magical, living women (and one man) reduced to adorable states, ready to come alive with their owner’s imagination. What was the problem? Why were the bids so low?

He made his way to the back patio, where he found one of his entertainers for the night sitting on a bench, calmly scrolling on her phone. He asked what she was doing out here, and she, without any shame, said that she had been working for three hours straight and was just on a break, per her contract. It was not the sort of answer that fixed Mr. Brown’s mood.

Remaining calm, Mr. Brown reached out and used his borrowed magic on the musician, seeing to it that she would aways perform when needed. That is, as long as she was wound up.