In the shadowy basement, shelves stood laden with jars of minerals, flasks of thick liquids, and tattered notebooks, the walls a jumble of disorder and brilliance. At the heart of it, eleven-year-old Theo lingered, his hair a wild tangle, his too-large lab coat dragging behind him like a cloak.
He peered at the beaker bubbling before him, his fingers nimbly dusting a pinch of vivid yellow powder into it. The liquid spat and snarled, a wisp of pale green smoke curling upward. Theo eased back, his face caught between focus and faint irritation.
Then it came, as it always did—
Boom!
The beaker burst in a blaze of light, glass fragments scattering across the workbench. Theo flinched, but didn't bother to shield himself. It was routine. He swiped a streak of soot from his cheek and sighed wearily. "Here we go again," he muttered, sweeping the broken shards aside with a familiar flick of his hand.
Reaching for another beaker, he froze. The shelf that held his prized minerals—his whole stock—gaped empty. He blinked at the bare jars, as if staring might summon their contents back. When nothing stirred, he groaned and sank into his chair. "Out of minerals," Theo grumbled. "Perfect. Just what I needed."
For a moment, he sat still, his gaze roving the room for an answer. It settled on the door to the stairs. His brother—ever the one with useful supplies—might have what he lacked.