Beau's Wish

The warning echoed in Beau’s mind as he stepped into the narrow alleyway, his sneakers crunching softly against a carpet of fallen leaves. Faint shafts of early evening light filtered between the looming buildings, casting long, fingerlike shadows on the ground. Beau McKenzie, a thirty-two-year-old man, had heard the phrase a thousand times from his mother, teachers, and even his old boss at the garage. But never had it felt so immediate, so present, as it did now. “Be careful what you wish for.”

It’s not like Beau had wished for much. Just a little luck, a break from the tough news, and the endless string of bad days that had stacked up like poker chips in a game he was destined to lose. Hope didn’t seem to be on his side. After his last visit to the doctor, his car had broken down, and his hours at the warehouse had been cut. Rent was due, and his landlord’s patience was thinner than rice paper. So, by the time he’d spotted the man in the red shoes sitting on the bench by Milton’s Deli, his guard had been worn down.

The man had an easy smile, the kind that made you feel like you’d met before. Dark wavy locks of hair that caught the light just right and cobalt blue eyes you couldn’t help but stare into. But it was the shoes that caught Beau’s eye. Blood-red leather, polished to a mirror finish, as though they’d just been pulled fresh from a box. Too clean for the city sidewalks. Too bright for someone dressed in a plain white T-shirt, gray coat, and jeans.

“Rough day?” the man had asked, his voice warm and smooth like honey poured over hot toast.

“Rough life,” Beau muttered, shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets.

The man tilted his head, his eyes clear and thoughtful. “Maybe you need a little change of fortune.”

“You think?” Beau sighed, glancing up the street to check for the bus that never seemed on time.

“Sometimes,” the man said, “a little faith is all it takes.” He’d reached out a hand, palm up as if offering something invisible. “Make a wish, Beau.”

That’s where it could’ve ended. Beau might have laughed it off, waved the man’s hand away, and gone back home to his cramped studio apartment to eat some instant noodles. But something about those red shoes made him pause, struck accord with him. Something about the man’s voice: it seemed so calm and confident, like he’d seen how the story ended and knew precisely how it would play out.

“Alright,” Beau said, half a joke, half a surrender. “I wish things would just get better.”

The man’s smile widened, and he waved his hand. “Done.”

And that’s when the warning whispered in his head: Be careful what you wish for.

At first, it seemed like nothing had changed. The bus was late, as always, and the driver didn’t apologize when it finally arrived. Beau headed to the rear, watching the man, still on the bench, never moving, until he looked up, locked eyes with Beau, and smiled. Beau turned away and slid to slouch into the seat at the back, fished out his phone, and scrolled, trying not to think about his aching feet, the stranger, or the rent notice taped to his front door.

The following day, the sun danced through his bedroom window a little brighter than usual. The air didn’t smell so stale. It was as though the world had nudged him.

Worried that maybe he’d slept in a little too long, he turned over and grabbed his phone. “Congratulations,” the text read. It was from the warehouse. “Effective immediately, you’re being offered full-time hours. Report at 8 a.m. Monday.”

Beau blinked at the screen, rereading it twice. Full-time? He’d been begging for extra hours for months, and suddenly, here it was, handed to him like a gift. He’d grinned so hard his face hurt. Rolling out of bed, he scratched his butt through his boxers before tossing his phone on the couch with a breathless laugh.

By the end of the week, the luck didn’t just continue—it snowballed in a big way.

Pulling on a tee and his jeans, he decided to go for a coffee at Milton’s Deli. Glancing down, he spotted a twenty dollar bill stuck to the damp concrete of the sidewalk. A neighbor’s dog walker offered him fifty bucks to fill in for him for the day. Then his cousin, who never called, randomly sent him money “to help with rent.” By Saturday, Beau’s bank account was healthier than it had been in months.

“This is it,” he told himself, staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “Finally, my luck’s turning around.” He’d shaved that morning, trimmed his hair, and even splurged on a new pair of shoes—plain black sneakers, nothing flashy, but they fit perfectly. It felt good to feel like he was in control for a change. Maybe things were going to be better. 

But luck is sometimes much more than what it seems.

The following Monday, the first thing he noticed was the cold. It was bitter, biting cold that didn’t match the forecast. The air nipped at his fingers, his breath curling like smoke in front of him. He’d barely stepped two blocks from his apartment when he saw them.

Those red shoes.

They gleamed like fresh paint, standing out against the frost-bitten sidewalk like drops of blood on snow. Beau’s heart skipped. The man—the same man from before—stood across the street, hands in his coat pockets, watching him. No smile this time. Just a patient, steady gaze.

Beau’s stomach twisted. He pulled his coat tighter, kept his head down, and hurried past, telling himself it was just a coincidence—big city. Plenty of people wear weird shoes. But he could feel those eyes on him all the way to the warehouse.

It happened again on Thursday. This time, the man was leaning against a lamppost right outside his building, his red shoes tapping lightly against the pavement. Beau’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t stop. He didn’t say a word. But his heart pounded like a drum the whole way to the bus stop.

By Friday, Beau’s world didn’t feel so lucky anymore.

The air felt heavier. The warehouse’s machines groaned louder than usual. People’s eyes lingered on him too long. Even the break room coffee tasted sour. His stomach churned with unease, and when he left work that evening, he’d barely walked half a block before he saw them again.

Red shoes.

This time, the man was closer.

“Evening, Beau. How are you?” the man said, stepping beside him.

“I—” Beau’s voice faltered. “I’m good, thanks.”

The man nodded, his eyes forward, his hands still in his coat pockets. They walked in silence for a block. The red shoes clicked softly on the pavement with each step.

“Have you had a good run?” the man said quietly, not looking at him. “Fortune’s a funny thing, though. It’s gotta balance out with reality eventually.”

“What do you want?” Beau’s voice was sharper than he’d meant, his fists clenching inside his coat pockets.

The man’s smile was small, almost kind. “I’m just here to see it through.”

“See what through?” Beau’s pulse throbbed in his ears.

The man’s eyes met his, steady and clear. “Your wish.” He tapped the side of his head as if to remind him. “You asked for things to get better. Didn’t say how or for how long.”

Panic surged through Beau’s chest. He stopped walking, heart hammering like a trapped bird. “You-you're messing with me.”

“No,” the man said, his red shoes tapping lightly on the sidewalk. “I’m just here to check on you.”

“What do you mean? Check on me?”

Beau began to walk on, and the man joined alongside.

“Your wish, Beau. Are things better?” The man stepped in front of Beau, and they stopped standing toe to toe. The man’s blue eyes appeared to glow, and Beau could feel their intensity.

“Yeah, sorta, I guess,” Beau replied, his heart pounding in his ears. He could feel his face flush. The man smiled, stepped back, and extended his hand again. “Beau McKinzie, I’m Caleb Divine.”

Beau hesitated before taking his hand. The man’s grip was surprisingly firm and warm. “Nice to meet you–Caleb.”

Beau fluttered his eyelashes and let his hand relax, but the man continued to hold it. “Beau, the demon Nergal had you in his grip. He wanted you to throw yourself in front of the bus that evening when we met. He’d taken your health and thrown your life into ruin. He wanted to force you to take your own life.” 

“Wa––What are you talking about?” Beau pulled his hand free and stepped back. He watched as Caleb’s enormous white feather wings exploded from his back. Beau felt a surge of fear followed by a warmth across his face. He watched as Caleb began to rise slowly.

“You are better, Beau. You are much better. The cancer surging through your veins is gone—gone forever. Now go and make it a better life for everyone you meet.” Caleb began to fade into a white mist, “Beau, know that you were careful in what you wished for.” In the next instant, Caleb disappeared. The night air had changed to warm, and the chill was gone. Beau touched his cheek and felt a tear there. He was indeed better.