‘Peter Pan thinks it’s magic,’ Silky Josephine says of a particularly wondrous stone they have found on our walk. ‘But I don’t believe it.’ 
     ‘Why not?’ I ask her, turning the stone over in my palm. 
    River-rounded, it’s the color of caramel and cream, smooth and slightly egg-shaped, with an odd translucence that makes it seem to glow, makes me wonder if I should hold it to my ear in some quieter place and listen, deeply, for a voice perhaps, a song. 
     ‘Because it doesn’t do anything,’ Silky replies. ‘It doesn’t fly. It doesn’t float. Nothing.’ 
     ‘Well,’ I say, ‘It’s a tricky business, to get a Magical Thing to do the magical things that it does,’ and I hold the stone up to the Sun, where its caramel glow fills red with the setting.
     ‘How magical do you think that sunsets would be', I ask, 'if the Sun were to be thrown into a roadbed and driven over, day after day, all of its efforts unnoticed?’ 
     Peter Pan and Silky Josephine love both sunrises and sunsets tremendously and look horribly saddened by the thought of them being driven over and forgotten in the gravel of some lonely road. Too saddened to speak. 
     ‘Exactly,’ I say, handing Peter Pan back the stone. 
    ‘Watch Silky. Give it a little attention and see how its magic grows.’