At the bottom of the stairs, I called out, "I've reviewed the work opportunities you suggested!" All I received in response was silence. Typical. When Wonder is in her photography studio, she can tune out the sounds of the Apocalypse or the onset of Judgment Day, and remain focused on adjusting lens apertures.
I entered her workspace, where organized chaos reigned supreme. Abstract photographs on stretched canvas lay strewn across the floor along with camera bodies and lens cases, creating a landscape of professional creativity. She looked up, one eyebrow arched—and a look that implied, What is it this time?
"I've shortlisted three potential career paths," I explained. "But Princess Amy has... concerns."
Ms. Wonder's lips twitched—the closest she ever comes to actually laughing at my concerns. "Let's hear it," she said.
"Your first suggestion seems promising," I said. "Responding to online surveys is appealing, and ZipRecruiter tells me sharing my opinions could bring in as much as $30 hourly. I like the sound of that."
"But Amy has other ideas?" she said.
"She thinks the surveys are used by the Illuminati to harvest thoughts from unsuspecting participants, and then the data is used for their nefarious porpoises."
"Purposes," Ms. Wonder corrected.
"Tonsils," I muttered. "They got in the way. Sorry."
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath—so deep I worried she'd hyperventilate. "Market research isn't mind control. Those survey rates are likely inflated, but they might provide pocket money while you explore more substantial opportunities."
"That is true," I said. "I'll keep surveys on the shortlist. As for option two, freelance writing, the market shows solid growth and reasonable compensation. But Amy's worried about "word demons."
"Like in Stephen King's 'The Dark Half'?" asked The Wonder and her disbelief filled the room. "Word demons?"
I nodded. "She's convinced they might control my creative thoughts. Of course, she's thinking of the sewer harpies, not word demons. She suggested they might cause me to write trashy romance novels--like bodice-rippers--instead of thoughtful essays."
"Let me get this straight," she said, holding up her hand in a universal gesture indicating don't try me too high. "You're worried about mind control and word demons. Now, let’s complete the triad. What’s your concern about temp work? I know you must have one."
"Amy is really worked up about that one. She says temp agencies are modern fairy courts. Unsuspecting mortals sign contracts for light office work, only to find themselves in eternal servitude to the Seely Court."
Ms. Wonder's reality check was swift and surgical. "Temp agencies are businesses matching workers with short-term opportunities. Not portals to alternate dimensions."
Having methodically dismantled Amy's elaborate conspiracy theories, she posed the critical question: "Which option best matches your skills and schedule?"
The answer, suddenly, was crystal clear. "Freelance writing," I admitted. "I can work from home without risking eternal bondage in service to supernatural entities."
"Excellent," she said, returning to her portfolio. "By the way, if you write trashy romance novels, I expect the first one to be dedicated to me."
I smiled. Ms. Wonder had once again transformed my scattered anxieties into a clear vision of the path forward. A new morning had indeed broken, reminiscent of that first morning we shared in Brookgreen Gardens.A new chapter opened in my life--one filled with possibility. As for Princess Amy, she remained suspiciously quiet—probably plotting her next conspiracy theory.