When Your Ex-Husband Lies Dying and Only You Can Get Him the Magic Elixir from the Bodega

March sweeps in with a wonderful quartet of stories as The Sunday Morning Transport brings tales by Ben Francisco, V.M. Ayala, Alex Irvine, and Leah Cypess. We are grateful for your support in helping us get here, and in continuing to bring more extraordinary writers and their work to the page.

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In this month’s first, free story, Ben Francisco asks you to visit a magical bodega, with a complex set of prices.

~ Julian and Fran, March 1, 2026

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When Your Ex-Husband Lies Dying and Only You Can Get Him the Magic Elixir from the Bodega

by Ben Francisco

The first step is to walk to the nearest bodega. It likely isn’t far, perhaps a few hundred steps, but not much more than that, not if you’re in the city. A journey into the absurd begins with a walk around the block.

The store has a name, of course. Flatbush Deli, perhaps. Or Convenience & Grocery. But no one calls it that. You call it the bodega, and everyone knows what you mean: the store on the corner, the one with the awning of faded maroon, with the busy letters saying Cigarettes—Sandwiches—Lotto—Coffee—Cold Beer—Soda—Newspapers—Candy—EBT Accepted Here. These are the things that mark the bodega for what it is: a space where space is slightly bent, a place that is both one place and many places.

Go to the guy at the cash register up front and to the side. He may be busy with other customers or counting small bills or checking something on his phone. Be respectful and wait for him to finish. Eventually he’ll point at you and say, “What do you need?”

Then you’ll reply—and be sure to use these words exactly: “I’d like to see your top-drawer stuff.”

The cashier may say, “Nothing we have comes in drawers,” or he may just squint at you.

I should mention that if you speak Spanish or Arabic, it may speed up the process. But being a polyglot is not crucial to your mission; only persistence is.

In any case, whether in Arabic or English or Spanish, you must tell the cashier, “I mean the top of the top, the cream of the crop. The stuff you keep in the back.”

The cashier will nod. With his nose, he’ll point to the bodega cat, which is crouching on a nearby shelf in between the cans of diced tomatoes. You hadn’t noticed her there before. She’s gray with uneven black stripes, a pattern that looks like a Rorschach. At its leisure, the cat will emerge from the tomato cans and saunter down the aisle. Keep exactly three paces behind her. If you follow her too closely, she’ll get skittish and dart into the shadows of detergents and bleach. If you fall too far behind, you’ll lose her at the end of the aisle.

She will lead you to the far wall, where the soft drinks are. One refrigerator is stacked with Coca-Colas and another with orange juice and apple juice. Just a few inches separate them. The cat will squeeze its way through the crack, its skeleton easily folding to fit the space between the fridges.

You must follow. Don’t think too hard about the geometry of it. Imagine you’re like the bodega cat, with free rein of this realm, master of this corner of the universe, no passage too narrow to keep you out. You should only feel a mild discomfort, the cold metal of the refrigerators pressing against your cheeks and palms as you push your way through.

#

You’re with your current husband when you first receive the call about your first husband.

“I’m afraid I have bad news, sir,” says the operator on the line. “Your husband is in critical condition.”

You look at your husband in bed beside you, and for a moment you almost put your palm to his forehead to check his temperature. But even from here you can see that his breathing is fine. You have the urge to make a joke about your husband looking pretty good for a guy in critical condition. But you resist the temptation. After all, someone’s husband is in the hospital, and that person and their husband deserve your sympathy.

After some back-and-forth with the operator, you realize it is your husband. Your ex-husband. He never bothered to remove you as his emergency contact. Typical. He never had the patience for the minutiae of life. He always relied on you to take care of the little things.

You explain the situation to your current husband, who’s as understanding as always. You should go, he tells you.

Your ex was never good at making friends. It might not be that he forgot to change his emergency contact information. It might be that even after all these years, he still doesn’t have anyone else to be his person.

At the hospital, it takes some time to find his room. When you do, it’s a bit of a shock, seeing him with the IV in his arm and the tube in his throat. Even more shocking is his stubble. He was always so meticulous about shaving, keeping his flawless baby face clean.

“I knew you’d come,” he says, a pained softness in his voice.

“Of course,” you say.

“The doctors here have no idea what they’re doing. My throat is closing up, I can feel it. Soon I won’t be able to breathe at all. But now that you’re here I finally have hope.” He smiles. His smile carries a subtle flavor of the charm of his younger, healthier self, of the crackle of energy that used to flow between you. “There’s an elixir that will help me.”

“What kind of elixir?” you say. An elixir sounds hard to get. An elixir sounds like a quest and distant lands and sacrifices.

He knows you well, and he senses the hesitation behind your question. “It won’t be that hard,” he says. “It’s an elixir the same shade of blue as the sky. You can get it from the bodega, just around the corner.”

His voice is weak, but, as always, his argument is unassailable.

#

Your body may feel tight after squeezing through the cold, narrow path between the refrigerators. You may want to shake your arms or ball your fists, to loosen your muscles and build up your body heat.

The corridor will widen, but you’ll still be standing between two fridges—two walls of cold glass and metal, twice as tall as you on either side.

Walk forward, with care, and you will find that you have entered a labyrinth of refrigerators. Touch the left wall and follow it. Limit your contact with the wall to one or two fingers, to keep the cold from consuming your body. The light will be dim, and the maze will take several twists and turns, but follow the left wall until you come to the center.

In the middle of the maze, you’ll find a fridge that’s taller than the rest. On its top shelf is a set of light azure beverages in unlabeled bottles. The same shade of blue as the sky, just like your ex-husband said. Leaning on the wall beside this last and tallest refrigerator will be a long pole with a claw at the end—a grabber, as professionals in the bodega world call it.

Grab the grabber. Open the fridge door and use the grabber to reach for a bottle of elixir. Take care not to press the claws of the beverage too tightly around the bottle, and, above all, be careful not to drop it. The elixir is carbonated, as all great beverages from the bodega are, and if you drop it, it could fizzle into inertness—or worse, it could explode in your face. Yet you must also not allow your carefulness to slow you too much. The cold air of the machines is unsafe for the human body, and if you linger too long inside the open door of the refrigerator, you may not return at all.

Whatever you do, do not take more than one azure bottle.

Once you have the elixir in hand, return the way you came. The cashier will ring you up. “One glint,” he’ll say.

You may crinkle your face in confusion.

“The glint in your eye,” the cashier will say, to clarify the form of payment accepted for elixirs.

If you give your assent to the price, then he’ll take out a pair of silver pincers—like a shiny miniature version of the grabber you just used. In one swift motion, he’ll snap the pincers at your left eye. When he pulls them back, the pincers will hold a speck so small it’s barely visible, shining like dust caught in a beam of sunlight.

He’ll take your speck of light and deposit it in a jar with other glints, buzzing around like fireflies the size of fleas.

#

It’s been nearly an hour since your ex-husband drank the elixir, and the color has begun returning to his face. “This is perfect,” he says. “I can already feel it working.”

“I’m so glad,” you say, and you are. You’re still not sure what it means to lose a glint, but the world looks grayer now, like someone turned down the brightness of your vision from the other side of the screen. But it was worth it, if it helped save your ex-husband’s life. You still care for him.

You sit by his side for a few moments, uncertain what to do. He seems better now. And your husband—your real husband, your husband of the present not the past—is home waiting for you. “I should go.”

“Wait,” your once-husband says. “I need your help with one more thing.” With his chin, he points at the uneaten tray of food on the table beside him. “I haven’t been able to eat anything they give me. They have no idea how to nurse someone back to health here. It’s ridiculous, it’s like their whole job and they’re terrible at it.”

This is a common complaint of his. No one is ever good enough at their job, except, of course, for him. And, perhaps, by extension, you. Many requests begin like this, with the implication that no one else but you can get it right.

“Give it some time,” you say. “I’m sure you’ll be able to hold down food soon, now that you got the elixir.”

“Not this food,” he says. “My stomach can’t take it. What I really need is this artisanal mystic cheese.”

“Artisanal mystic cheese,” you say, your tone searching for the territory between a question and incredulity.

“It will restore my natural biome,” he says. “You just need to go back to that bodega on the corner. Get the one that’s the same shade of orange as the setting sun.”

#

This time, go past the guy at the cash register and straight to the guy at the deli counter in the back. There may be a muddled line around the metal-and-glass case, which is just about the height of your chin, like the deep end of a swimming pool. While you wait, feel free to peruse the ham and turkey and cheese, all Boar’s Head, all packaged in skintight plastic.

Eventually the deli clerk will point at you. The proper words to say are: “I hear the best cheese is aged in caves.”

The deli clerk is not as friendly as the cashier, less talkative. Most likely he’ll just harrumph. But he’ll also get out from behind the counter. Just beside the deli counter is a stack of bright red crates filled with chips. Dust will kick up as he pushes them to the side. Don’t breathe too much of it into your lungs.

Behind where the crates were, there’s a tiny door on the side of the deli counter, which the clerk opens for you. In normal space, the little door would just allow you to reach inside the counter into the display meats and cheeses. But this is the bodega. Through the door you’ll see a spiral staircase, all shaky steel and shadows.

Enter the tiny door with your knees first, as if you were in a limbo contest. Let your body flatten as you pass through the door, as if you yourself were just a slice of something. You may feel a sharp sensation on your skin, but if you step boldly, it will soon pass, and you’ll be on the other side of the door.

You can unflatten yourself now. Go down the stairs, taking care, as the steps are steep and the turns sharp. You will descend more deeply than you thought possible, well past the point where sewers and subway tunnels crisscross the city’s underground. As the light from the bodega recedes, you’ll need the light of your cell phone to find your way.

Eventually you’ll reach the bottom of the spiral staircase, which will open into a cave of white bricks. The air is moist. Rows and rows of shelves are filled with enormous cheese wheels. But the artisanal mystic cheese is not on the shelves. Look for an alcove in the brick walls, in the corner where the shadows run darker and deeper. Reach for the space between the bricks. You’ll feel the wetness of the air seeping into the hairs of your arm. When your hand hits something that’s softer than brick but harder than water, then you’ve found it. Pull it into the light and you’ll see that the cheese wheel is the size of your hand and the soft orange color of the setting sun.

After you make you way back with the cheese, this time the cashier will say, “One spring.” By now you should be picking up the cadence of the bodega dialect, so you understand right away that he means the spring in your step.

If you assent to the price, he’ll take out a long tube, like the vacuum cleaner attachment for high corners and deep crevices. With one casual swipe, he’ll stretch the tube over the counter and toward your leg, getting uncomfortably close to your groin. You’ll feel the suction of the tube pulling tight against your pants and skin as something gets sucked out of your legs.

The cashier takes the tube back and reverses the airflow, dropping its contents into a big plastic bowl. You’d imagined your spring would have a metallic sheen, or perhaps even a sparkle, like your glint. But it’s just a long tangle of pink meat, like intestines the size of floss.

You walk out of the bodega, and your legs feel heavier, as if a small creature were hanging on the back of your thighs, its weight dragging you down as your sneakers scuff the sidewalk.

#

Your ex-husband cuts into the cheese as if it were a miniature birthday cake, slicing away one triangle at a time and then slowly nibbling at it.

“Wow,” he says. “This is so good. This is exactly what I needed. So much better than anything the nurses brought. Finally, food that’s actually edible. I can feel the bacteria inside of me, repopulating my gut.”

“That’s great,” you say. “You look much better now.” It’s true, he does. He’s even sitting up, leaning over the little table to munch at the cheese, not propped up on three pillows like he was before.

“This makes such a difference,” he says. “You’re so much better than any of the nurses.” You remember that this is what he does. He never says the words thank you, not exactly, but his praise for your service implies gratitude, in his way. It reminds you why you separated. You stand up to leave. Your legs still feel heavy, but walking is starting to feel manageable again.

“Wait,” he says. “Can you hand me my phone?”

It’s an easy enough thing, to get his phone before you leave. It’s on a chair in the corner, charging from one of the few power outlets unoccupied by the heavy cords of medical equipment. You bring it over to him.

He lifts the phone and sets it to the camera’s selfie mode. He holds it up to his face, pulling the skin of his cheeks back toward his ears. It’s been years since you’ve seen him do this, but it’s so familiar, like going back to a neighborhood where you used to live in decades past.

“This is awful,” he says. “I’ve aged, like, twenty years in the past few days. Look at these crow’s feet. My eyes look like they belong on an elephant.”

“It would never occur to me to say elephant,” you say, choosing your words carefully. It’s a delicate balance, affirming him without contradicting him too sharply. “And I’m sure you’ll look better after you get a few days’ more rest.”

“I need more than rest.” He shakes his head at the image on the screen of his phone, then sets the phone face down on the table, as if trying to contain its gory secrets. “You have no idea what this ordeal has done to me. It’s taken years away from me, I can feel it in my skin. This kind of trauma doesn’t just get fixed by itself. I need your help.”

“I can’t fix this,” you say. “I’m sure the doctors will—”

“The doctors are useless,” he says. “The only things that have helped me have come from the bodega. From you. I need you to go back one more time.”

“For something for your skin?” you say.

“Yes,” he says. “A special coconut cream with a shimmer of stardust.”

You look away from him, out the window. Night has fallen. You’ve lost a day doing these errands. One day, one glint, and one spring. Each request is small, but the bodega’s prices add up.

“It’s just this one last thing,” he says. “Remember: coconut cream that sparkles like stardust.”

#

Now you must go to the clerk at the lotto machine. Say to him, “I’ve already got a winning ticket. I need the key for the good stuff.”

He knows your face by now, knows you’re from the neighborhood, so he should give it to you without too much fuss. The key will be tied to a wooden plank the size of your forearm, to make sure you don’t lose it.

Now you must go past the lotto area, past the 5-hour Energy shots and the poppers labeled cleaning solutions, until you get to the section in the very back of the bodega. There you’ll find shelves and racks filled with extension cords, shampoos, spatulas, special diabetic socks, incense, prayer candles for specific saints to intercede on behalf of specific needs, spices from at least five continents, and other items that seem too numerous and too varied to fit within the corners of a single corner store.

Just past the candles, you’ll find a freezer. This is not the freezer with ice cream or ice. It’s more like a cooler than a freezer—it barely reaches the height of your knees. But don’t let its small size deceive you: there is more to it beneath the floor.

A padlock holds the lid of the freezer in place. Unlock the padlock and remove it. Set aside your lock and key. The freezer’s lid is heavy, and you’ll need both arms to lift it.

Just as you’re about to open the freezer, your phone vibrates. It’s a text from your husband, the one you live with now.

I hope he’s doing better, it says. I’m glad you’re helping him.

You watch three bubbling dots until the next message appears. Let me know if you’ll make it home for dinner. Im thinking of making arroz con pollo. But its cool if you need more time with him tonight. But don’t forget we have three important episodes of the Good Place left to watch lol.

The thought of dinner and streaming a show sounds wonderfully simple, much reward for little effort, compared to everything this day has cost you. But as you stare at the message, you can’t help but notice the two typos—typos that your ex-husband would never allow. He was so meticulous about his text messages that he would ask you to edit them, not just for mistakes but for nuances of tone. He would get angry if he later realized you’d missed something, the text and the error irreversible. It was a grueling demand, but satisfying in its way, knowing how much he relied on you for the details.

You text your husband back that you’ll be home soon. You just have one more thing to do.

You stare at the freezer, uncertain what comes next. The lid is an opaque gray, revealing nothing of what’s within. You don’t know what the price will be this time, but you have a feeling it will be extracted from your heart.

Your current husband is waiting for you.

But the opaqueness is compelling, and perhaps you should do this one last thing your ex-husband needs from you.

You lift the lid. Inside the cold air is a thick fog, dotted with flickers of light, like a slice of concrete sidewalk glimmering in the sun.

The next step is to dive into the freezer. That’s where you’ll find the coconut cream that sparkles like stardust. It must be kept far below freezing for its special properties to remain intact.

You must dive in headfirst. It seems foolhardy, to dive into the freezing cold. This final task seems so capricious, so unnecessary. Your ex-husband has already healed from the worst of his ailments. You have a new husband whose arms await you at home. Going back to him would be the sensible thing to do.

But then the icy air from the freezer reaches your face. The freezing fog is not harsh at all, but oddly inviting.

You dive in. You’re astonished that the sides of the freezer do not graze your arms or legs. It’s as if your body were stretching into a single flat line, reducing the resistance from the air as you descend. The glossy mist caresses your skin like a refreshing breeze on a muggy day.

It’s surprising, how comforting the cold can be.

#

Thank you for joining our journey this week.

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Ben Francisco’s fiction has won the Indiana Review Fiction Prize, been featured in Locus’s Recommended Reading List, and appeared in Strange Horizons, PodCastle, and From Macho to Mariposa: New Gay Latino Fiction. Their work ranges from magic realism to space opera and has been known to feature oversexed ghosts, depressed precognitive psychics, and vampire aliens who reproduce like moss. Ben’s first novel, Val Vega: Secret Ambassador of Earth, was featured in BookLife’s Best of 2024 and Reactor Magazine’s Notable YA SF of 2024. A Kirkus starred review called it “a captivating, heartfelt tale about family, diplomacy, and finding one’s place in the universe.” Visit Ben at benfrancisco.net.

“When Your Ex-Husband Lies Dying And Only You Can Get Him the Magic Elixir from the Bodega” © Ben Francisco, 2026.

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