fore, because I hadn't acknowledged it, not even
to myself; but as I walked back down the  hall to my  office, I had to admit
that I was glowing. I'd  gotten everything I'd  wanted,  a wonderful son,  a
profound  sense of  family, a whole new reason for waking up in the morning.
So what if  he's a Martian, it  really doesn't matter, does it? He's my son,
and I love him. I'm not giving him up. He's special.
     When Dennis puts his  mind to  it,  he can predict  elevators  and make
stoplights turn  green and help the Dodgers win  baseball games. He can make
lottery tickets pay  off (a little bit, four numbers  at  a time) and he can
wish a father into his life. That's pretty powerful stuff.
     I think  we  might experiment  with that a little bit more. We  haven't
bought any lottery tickets in a while. Maybe we should buy a couple tonight.
And if that works, who  knows what else he could wish for. I was thinking of
asking  him to  wish  for  a  Hugo  award for  his dad --  just a test,  you
understand -- but this  morning, he announced he was going to wish for a mom
instead. I'll be very interested to see how that one works out.


     AUTHOR'S AFTERWORD:
     This story is, to the best of my knowledge, a work of fiction.
     Yes, I have an adopted son.  Yes,  his  name is Dennis. No, he is not a
Martian.
     I  asked  him if  he  was. He  said  he  wasn't. Then he  came over and
whispered in my ear, "I said no because we're not supposed to tell."