We were running low on parts, patience, and rational decisions. So naturally, Grenda placed an order with Wobblecart Courier Services, the worst-reviewed magical delivery company in the realm.

  Their motto? “We deliver it, or something explodes trying.”

  It was barely noon when the front door slammed open and in rolled the delivery cart—driverless, wobbling like a drunk mule, and absolutely humming with unstable pixie dust. A shrill, angry voice followed close behind it.

  “Don’t touch that! It’s sensitive!”

  A tiny gremlin skidded into the garage, clutching a clipboard half his size and gnashing his teeth. He was maybe two feet tall, wearing a vest that said “Supervisor,” and radiating the energy of someone who hadn't slept since the Mage Accord of 1832.

  “This is your shipment!” he yelled, already mid-argument with no one in particular. “It’s late because a banshee hijacked our logistics portal and someone in billing enchanted the wrong crates with dance curses. NOT my fault!”

  Grenda blinked. “Hi, Kriv. Good to see you too.”

  “You didn’t tip last time!” he snapped, stabbing the air with his pen. “And your cursed mop bucket bit me!”

  “It bites everyone,” Grenda said. “It’s a feature.”

  Kriv growled and stomped toward the cart, which was now humming audibly and glowing from within. Sparks poked it with a screwdriver.

  It coughed.

  Then exploded in a puff of glitter and began playing faint carnival music.

  From my corner, I braced myself. I’d learned the signs. Carnival music never meant anything good.

  Inside the crate were several mana-infused spark plugs, three boxes of Pixie Dust Prime?, a coil of eldritch jumper cables, and—oh yes—a poltergeist.

  “Who the hell packs a poltergeist in a shipping crate?” Grenda shouted as tools flew across the shop and the cursed mop bucket screamed.

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  “I specifically marked that box ‘do not jostle!’” Kriv shrieked.

  “I think it’s already haunting the break room!” Sparks yelled. “It’s rearranging my sandwich!”

  Bleatford peeked out from behind the front desk and calmly added, “The cheese is now alphabetized.”

  The entire shop was a whirlwind. Gears flying, pixie dust settling on everything, jumper cables dancing like snakes. The poltergeist had turned the calendar inside out and was trying to fold the floor into origami.

  I had no idea how, but I knew I had to do something.

  I focused hard—deep within the core of my rusty, misused frame—and summoned what I’d come to think of as “the drawer twitch.” But this time, I didn’t aim for a clink or a roll.

  I aimed for action.

  My bottom drawer flung open with force. A socket shot out and smacked the poltergeist squarely in its misty, smug face. It paused. Looked directly at me.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  The poltergeist shrieked and launched itself across the shop—heading straight for me.

  “Oh no you don’t,” I thought, and jostled my top drawer just enough to spill a handful of silver washers onto the floor.

  Gremlins hate washers. Something about taxes.

  Kriv shrieked in solidarity with the ghost and dove behind a barrel.

  “Boxy’s fighting back!” Sparks shouted. “It’s happening!”

  Grenda was mid-swing with a crowbar. “I knew something was weird with that toolbox!”

  The poltergeist, now clearly offended that a toolbox had initiated combat, began trying to possess me. I felt a weird tingle in my hinges. The drawer shuddered.

  And then—

  Something deep inside me… clicked.

  A golden rune, previously buried under loose bolts and regret, lit up in my bottom drawer. It pulsed once.

  The air shimmered.

  A blast of warding energy erupted outward, slamming the poltergeist into the far wall, where it splatted like spectral jelly.

  Silence.

  The jumper cables coiled back into a heap.

  The mop bucket exhaled.

  Sparks dropped her screwdriver in awe.

  “Boxy… are you a legendary artifact?”

  Kriv poked his head out. “Did your toolbox just banish a class-two haunt?”

  Grenda narrowed her eyes and approached me like I was a feral cat with a stun grenade.

  “Well well,” she muttered. “Looks like you’re more than just a fancy tin can after all.”

  I jingled softly in response. Modest. Mysterious. Full of potential and at least one ancient locking mechanism I still couldn’t open.

  Sparks leaned closer. “Boxy, if you start glowing and floating, I’m going to cry tears of joy and name my firstborn after you.”

  Grenda sighed and muttered, “We’ll need to run some diagnostics.”

  “I’ll get the crystal scanner!” Sparks shouted, sprinting into the back room.

  Kriv handed Grenda the delivery receipt. “That’ll be 27 gold, one silver, and emotional compensation for my trauma.”

  “Put it on the goat’s tab,” she said.

  Later that evening, after Sparks had fallen asleep hugging a spark plug and Bleatford had locked himself in his office with a bottle of potion labeled “Nope Juice,” Grenda stood in the dim garage, just looking at me.

  I thought she might say something dramatic. Ask me what I was. Demand an answer.

  Instead, she reached down, gently tapped my lid, and said, “Don’t go weird on me, Boxy. I’ve got enough problems.”

  I tried to purr. It came out as a clink.

  I think she understood.