Rays at Orioles GDT 1: Magic

Photo credit: Adam Hunger-USA TODAY Sports

Zip zop zooey.

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David sat in the trailer until dawn. He sat with his palms evenly pressed on the faux-wood TV tray and stared at the plastic spork. The remnant's of last night's Taco Bell dinner -- two chili cheese burritos and a large Surge cola -- lay scattered about the brown shag carpet.

David took a long blink. It felt like opening a window and letting in a breeze. He could feel himself falling asleep. He opened his eyes and placed the middle of his tongue between his teeth and bit down -- just enough to wake up, not hard enough to hurt himself.

The spork had not moved since 2:45 a.m. David's notebook, which featured mostly sketches of Led Zeppelin album covers, had these numbers written under a carefully shaded Hindenburg explosion: 1856, 2015, 2018, 0105, and 0245. At each moment since eating that last burrito, David had been able to lift the pen from the table and suspend it midair using only his mind. At 0245, he had turned the pen on its side and held it long enough to bring the notebook underneath it and write "0245" in large, rough letters. He did this by moving the notebook and holding the pen still.

But when he had turned to put the notebook down, the pen collapsed back onto the table.

Heflin would arrive at any moment, and David knew it. He wanted desperately to have the pen floating when Heflin walked in the door.

The pen did nothing.

David rubbed his prickly chin and patted his forehead with both hands.

The pen did nothing.

He stood, stretched, did three jumping jacks, plopped back onto the couch, and stared at the pen.

The pen did nothing.

He thought about something other than pens; he thought about pencils, then trees, then forests and mountains.

The pen did nothing.

David drew a deep breath, held it tight in his lungs and thought about blowing the pen off the TV tray and watching it drop off the ledge and disappear as though it had never been there. He thought about holding his breath until passing out or at least turning red. His chest stung and tickled his pain receptors. He released the breath in a sigh, stretched across the couch, pulled the brown fleece blanket over himself, and went to sleep.

When Heflin arrived to pick up David, David was still asleep. Heflin burst through the door and immediately turned on the television above the mini fridge, but not even the high, nervous reports from Peter Jennings could wake David. He dreamt of floating pens and talking chihuahuas and didn't need anything else.

Heflin, however, stood with both hands covering his mouth, his eyes fixed on the video feed of Yosemite trees bursting like fireworks, splitting apart in yellow clouds of debris, exploding -- for miles and miles -- into finely sharpened pencils.

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