Grek blinked awake, his eyes heavy and unfocused. Sunlight streamed through his window, far too bright, far too...late. His groggy brain jolted into awareness as he remembered his mother’s stern warning from the night before: “Don’t stay up late on that game, Grek! You’re on your own for school tomorrow, got it?”

  But of course, Grek hadn’t listened. He’d been deep in a telepathic virtual game with his friends, caught up in a raid on the Great Cheese Mountain of Ratloft. The game had been thrilling, but now he was paying the price. He bolted out of bed, grabbed whatever clothes were closest, and practically fell into them as he scrambled to find his backpack.

  His heart sank as he glanced out the window, spotting the empty curb where the school transport had just left. “No, no, no!” he muttered, thinking fast. He couldn’t call his mom—she’d be furious and, worse, right. He didn’t have money for a cab, and he wasn’t about to walk; that would take all day.

  He needed a ride, and he needed it fast.

  Grek bolted out of his house and across the yard to his neighbor’s place, pounding on the door. After what felt like an eternity, it creaked open to reveal old Mrs. Withertwig, a witch who smelled faintly of garlic and mothballs. She adjusted her glasses and looked down at Grek with an amused expression.

  “Oh, Grek, dear! What’s the rush?”

  “I missed the school transport, Mrs. Withertwig!” Grek replied, hopping from foot to foot. “Can you give me a ride?”

  Mrs. Withertwig smiled, but then she shuffled back inside at a pace that seemed almost deliberately slow. Grek watched in horror as she wandered off, muttering to herself about her house keys, her purse, and her “lucky amulet.” Grek’s heart pounded faster with each passing second.

  And that’s when he noticed something in the shadows of her garage: a broom. Not a battered broom for sweeping, but a sleek, polished flying broom—one that gleamed like it was calling his name.

  In a flash, he darted into the garage, seized the broom, and dragged it out onto the driveway. But as he climbed aboard and tried to figure out how to make it fly, nothing happened. He prodded it, shook it, and even whispered, “Fly!” but the broom remained as lifeless as an old stick.

  Grek slumped in defeat, until he heard a gruff chuckle from behind. Startled, he spun around to find Mr. Withertwig, Mrs. Withertwig’s husband, watching him from the porch, a faint smirk on his face.

  “Need a hand, kid?”

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  Grek’s face turned beet-red. “Uh...maybe?”

  The old wizard chuckled and leaned forward, squinting at him. “I was young once, too. Mischievous, you know. Here’s a tip: that broom only listens if you know the secret phrase.” He paused, enjoying Grek’s anticipation. “You gotta say Mrs. Withertwig’s name...backwards.”

  Grek’s brow furrowed as he worked out the name in his head. “Uh... G...I...W...R...E...” Finally, he got it right: “Giwt rehtiW!”

  The broom lurched to life beneath him, nearly bucking him off as it rose a foot off the ground.

  Grek clung on tight as the broom vibrated, then shot forward with a powerful jolt that nearly yanked him backward. He sped out of the driveway and over the yard, veering uncontrollably toward the road. His heart pounded as he zipped past his neighbors’ houses, the wind whipping his face. This was faster—and wilder—than anything he’d expected.

  As he zoomed toward the town center, Grek struggled to keep the broom steady. Every time he tried to slow down, it seemed to speed up, and when he pulled up, it dipped lower instead. People in the street stared as he zipped by, some shouting in surprise, others pointing or chuckling at the sight of a goblin kid barely clinging to a runaway broom.

  Things got particularly dicey as Grek zoomed through the open market, dodging stalls full of vegetables, enchanted jewelry, and magical knickknacks. He narrowly missed a cabbage stand, the broom clipping a crate and sending a flurry of green leaves into the air behind him.

  He shot a panicked glance backward, only to spot none other than Merrick Ashbain—flying on his own broom, Grandmear. Merrick was attempting to weave his way through the market as well, and for a split second, their eyes met. Grek had a moment of pure horror, thinking Merrick might stop him, but instead, the older wizard looked equally horrified, swerved sharply, and nearly crashed into a stall himself.

  “Watch where you’re flying, you little miscreant!” Merrick hollered as he adjusted his flight path, grumbling as he shook his head in exasperation and flew off on his own path.

  Grek would’ve laughed if he weren’t so busy holding on for dear life. The broom continued on its wild course, cutting through the town square, across the park, and back into the street. By now, he’d drawn quite a bit of attention, and Grek could hear the faint sound of someone—probably the broom’s actual owner—shouting in the distance.

  At last, the school came into view, looming just past a stone bridge. Grek gritted his teeth and leaned forward, urging the broom to go faster. He was nearly there! But as he reached the school gate, the broom suddenly sputtered and slowed, wobbling under him.

  With a final lurch, the broom dropped low to the ground, dragging Grek along as it skidded across the schoolyard, leaving a trail of dirt and dismay in its wake. Grek tumbled off, dazed and out of breath, but incredibly relieved. He’d made it to school—barely.

  As he glanced back at the broom, he winced. The once-pristine broom now looked battered and scratched, with several twigs snapped and a fine layer of dust covering its handle. Grek swallowed, realizing he’d have some serious explaining to do.

  The school bell rang, and Grek hoisted himself up, brushing off his clothes and giving the broom a final, apologetic pat. He sprinted inside, hoping the day’s misadventure would stay under wraps for at least...a few hours.