Jon shrugged, trying to hide the gnawing fear in his gut.
“Well… it’s not like we can do anything. So what’s the point in worrying? If we’re stuck like this, we just… wish ourselves to fit in better. In their lives, in their shoes. Pretend until it feels real.”
Mikey shifted uneasily. The stone’s weight in his palm felt heavier now, warmer, like it was waiting for him to say the wrong thing. His new stomach—a little fuller, older, stretched by years of growth—turned in knots. Jon was right. There wasn’t anything they could do. Not if the rules about wishes being permanent were true.
He sighed. “At least I’m the older brother now,” he muttered, almost to himself.
Jon flinched at the words, a pang of jealousy catching in his chest. But before he could answer, Mikey’s lips curled into a slow, testing smile. He looked at the stone, then at Jon trapped in his scrawny nine-year-old frame. The idea bloomed, dangerous and thrilling.
“And this…” Mikey held up the stone, feeling its slick, metallic surface glint under the lamp light, “…is mine.”
Jon’s eyes widened. “Wait. No—Mikey, don’t—”
He lunged, but it was pathetic: his small arms and thin legs couldn’t even knock his younger brother-turned-older-self off balance. Mikey barely moved, barely tried. He just pressed his hand against Jon’s chest and shoved. Jon stumbled back, his light frame sprawling onto the carpet with a thud.
Mikey laughed. Actually laughed. “Wow… you really are just a little kid now. My little kid brother.” He rolled the stone in his hand, savoring the feel of it.
“Mikey—listen to me. That thing’s dangerous. You can’t—”
“I wish,” Mikey interrupted, eyes gleaming, “that I had all the knowledge I needed to be amazing in high school. Smarts, instincts, everything. Like I’ve been sixteen my whole life.”
The air shimmered. Jon felt it before he saw it—like a pressure behind his eyes forcing him to blink, tearing his focus away from his brother.
When his vision cleared, Mikey was standing straighter. Taller somehow. He adjusted his posture like someone suddenly confident in their own skin. His grin sharpened.
“Wow,” he breathed, tapping his temple. “I get it. Classes, teachers, even the dumb social rules—I know how to play it all. I was so stupid before, but this… this is great.”
Jon’s blood ran cold.
“Mikey, stop. You don’t understand what you’re doing. Every wish—every one—locks things down tighter. If you change too much, there won’t be a way back.”
But Mikey wasn’t listening. He flexed his hand, watching the veins shift under older skin, then touched his chest, fascinated. “I want to see what this body can do. Really get to know it.” His gaze flicked down at Jon, still crumpled on the carpet. “So why don’t you get out of my way, little ass?”
Jon scrambled to his feet. “That’s my life, Mikey. My body. My friends. My future. You can’t just—”
“Can’t I?” Mikey tilted his head, the stone glowing faintly in his hand. “I wish Jon would only answer to the name Mikey. That he could never tell anyone—even me—that he was ever Jon. From now on, he’s just my little brother, and he’ll always follow what I say like it’s the best idea in the world.”
“No—!” Jon tried to shout, but the pressure slammed into him again. His throat tightened. His own name slipped away like water draining from cupped hands. His mind struggled, twisted, rewired.
“I’m… M-Mi—” The word stuck in his throat, choked by the wish. “I’m nine years old. I’m Mikey.”
He slapped his forehead, as if he could shake the truth back into place, but the harder he tried, the more it slid away. Memories bent to fit the new shape. School corridors shrank in his mind’s eye; teachers loomed larger. His handwriting grew messier, clumsier. His math problems simpler.
“Goddammit—what the hell, Jon—” But even as he said it, the word caught in his throat, warped. He bit it back, sweat beading on his brow. “I mean—what the hell, big bro?”
Mikey’s smile stretched wide. He crouched, resting one hand on Jon’s tiny shoulder. “There you go. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Jon’s breath came in ragged gasps. He wanted to punch, to scream, to claw the stone from his brother’s hand—but his body wouldn’t obey. Every impulse rerouted, muffled by an artificial instinct that whispered: He’s right. He knows best. Do what he says.
“Now,” Mikey said lightly, ruffling Jon’s hair like he was patting a pet, “I’ve got homework. Real homework. Algebra, essays, all that. And since I’m so damn clever now, I’m gonna crush it.” He stood, towering. “Why don’t you head back to your room and do yours? You’ve got spelling to practice, right? And, hey, you’re actually a lot smarter than you used to be—so you’ll enjoy it.”
Jon opened his mouth to scream No!, but what came out instead was:
“Y-yeah. Okay, big bro. Thanks for playing with me.” His lips curved into a smile he didn’t mean. His feet carried him to the door, skipping, light, childlike. Every step away from Mikey was another reminder that the stone hadn’t just stolen his body—it was stealing his will.
Behind him, Mikey called out cheerfully, “Good boy. Don’t forget to write your name on your homework, Mikey.”
Jon flinched. The name burned. And still, he whispered it under his breath, like he couldn’t stop himself.
“I’m… Mikey.”
The door closed.
And in the silence of his little brother’s room—no, his room now—Jon sat at the desk, pencil in hand, fighting back tears as his hand scratched out a child’s clumsy letters at the top of the page:
Name: Mikey.
