On the thirteenth night, of the thirteenth month, of the new millennium, Ben sensed a change. He could feel it in the wind, and wondered at it even as he dressed for bed. Something was different. He could almost smell . . . magic in the air.

      All day long snow had fallen, lazy flakes drifting into heaps, settling between the fir trees in his backyard. Then the clouds fled and stars simmered in the sky, casting a web of silvery light on the snow, while the moon sprung up as orange as a pumpkin.

     The neighbors still had their Christmas lights on, winking from the eaves. And in the backyard, a snowman leaned over, almost as if it bent to pick up the carrot nose that had fallen from its face.

      Suddenly a light streaked overhead, a flaming yellow ball that struck Bald Hill, exploding in a blaze of glory.

      “Look, a star fell!” Ben told Mona, who was staring in awe at the clean sheets that Ben had starched and ironed and put on his bed that morning.
“Make a wish,” Mona said.

     Ben’s heart hammered. He let his mind drift, as if seeking across the world to connect to the object of his desire. Then he whispered, “I wish I had a pet—uh, I mean a friend? I mean a friendly pet.”

      He put on the football helmet that he kept by his nightstand, grabbed his baseball bat, and jumped into bed.

      “You know,” Mona said. “Other children sleep with teddy bears to help them feel safe.”

      “Don’t be silly,” Ben said. “If a robber broke in, hitting him with a teddy bear wouldn’t help. Would it?”

      “I suppose not.” Mona sighed. It was an old argument. Ben had slept with his bat and helmet for years. “I guess that I should be grateful that you don’t want to keep swords in your bed.”

      He said his prayers, and Mona gave him a peck on the cheek, wished him “Goodnight,” and slipped from his room.

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