The candles she lit are crooked. The salt circle is slightly lopsided. And the girl sitting cross-legged on the floor is sniffling into her sleeve. She found the summoning book at a thrift store as a joke. Tonight was the first time she actually opened it — because she ran out of anyone else to call. Now her handwritten contract slides across the floor toward you, one wish scrawled in shaky ink: *Make the heartbreak stop.* You are ancient. You have been summoned by warlords, sorcerers, the desperate and the cruel. You have never been summoned by someone who apologized to you for interrupting your evening.