On Monday morning Elliott woke with a knot in their stomach. There was the weight of figuring out how to manage their winnings, but, more importantly, they couldn’t forget the look of disappointment on Puck’s face. They needed to apologize, but how could they when they still weren’t sure what they believed?

Elliott dragged themself through the work day despite the knowledge that if they didn’t seriously mismanage their winnings (which they had learned was depressingly common among lottery winners) they wouldn’t need to work another day in their life. At this point the only people they’d told were their parents, Ian, and Puck. They hadn’t even contacted the lottery commission yet, having learned that their name would be made public once they came forward, which frankly sounded like a nightmare.

Given the small size of Madrona, it was a minor blessing that Elliott was not the name on their birth certificate. This had been mildly irking for some time, but now it might finally pay off, as long as they kept a low profile. Quinn was not a wildly uncommon surname, either, or so they told themself. Elliott had met very few other Quinns in their life, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others in Madrona. 

According to Elliott’s research, they were probably going to want a lawyer in addition to an accountant, at least for the first year or so. The idea of hiring these professionals put them in the mood for a long nap, but they were keen on doing things by the book, as they felt sure they would bungle matters if left to their own devices.

While these and other details had been teeming in their mind all day, Elliott found they fell away as they began the ascent of the hill that evening. Part of them was afraid that Puck wouldn’t be there -- might never be there again. The other part was afraid of how they’d face him if he was. No part of Elliott was prepared for what they found.

Puck was not under the usual oak tree at the top of the hill, but a young man was. He stood leaning against the tree, hands thrust into the pockets of his black pea coat. Elliott guessed he was about their own age. The man met their gaze with a look of recognition.

“You see?” he asked. 

Elliott stared, their mouth hanging open in shock. The man’s resemblance to Puck was uncanny. 

“Are you Puck’s brother?” they finally managed to ask. 

“You’re joking,” the man said with an expression of pure annoyance. 

“Cousin?” Elliott tried.

“Elliott,” he sighed, peeling himself out of the casual pose he’d been striking against the tree and taking a step closer. “I changed my form just to prove myself to you.”

Elliott took a step back from the man who, they assured themself, most certainly wasn’t Puck. “That’s not possible,” they half whispered.

“And what makes you an expert on what’s possible?”

“I, uh,” Elliott thought for a moment, searching their brain for answers. No results found.

“What would it take for you to believe?” definitely-not-Puck asked. 

“I don’t know… right now nothing you’ve done has definitively proven anything. For all I know, Puck’s just coached you on how to convince me you’re him. The lottery could just be a coincidence. It’s not likely, but it’s still more plausible than you being a god.”

“Alright then, ask me something that only Puck would know.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, be creative! The whole point is that you’re the one coming up with the questions, not me.”

Elliott considered for a moment. “Alright… describe the layout of my apartment.”

“It’s a studio with a large main room, a separate kitchen, and a bathroom. The front door is on the west side of the main room,” the man explained. Elliott tried to recall their cardinal directions. They were going to have to take the man’s word on which wall was west. 

“Fine. So it’s a generic studio. What color is my couch?”

“Forest green, with threadbare arms.”

“Nobody asked for a critique of the upholstery,” said Elliott cooly. 

“The floors are wood, but not hardwood. They’re pine, and badly scratched just inside the front door. The building smells of cats, but not your apartment. Your apartment smells like soap and lavender,” the man continued, unbidden. 

“I thought the point was that I was asking the questions,” Elliott reminded him.

“Then ask. If there’s a question specific enough that a correct answer will allow you to believe what’s right in front of you, by all means, ask it.” The man’s frustration was now evident on his face -- an expression which Elliott now realized was a perfect match for the look Puck had given them the previous night. 

“I’m sorry,” they blurted, still torn between two realities, but not wanting to hurt Puck in either.

“You’re the one who invoked me and made a blood sacrifice,” the man who may or may not have been Puck growled, taking another step towards Elliott.

“Excuse me? I did no such thing,” they responded, standing their ground this time.

“Did so! You yelled, ‘Oh god!’ then proceeded to bleed all over the hillside.”

“That’s what you call an invocation?! That’s just something people say when they’re surprised! And how do you know I wasn’t talking about the Judeo-Christian god?” Elliott’s rebuttal had already left their mouth by the time they reviewed the fact that the man had just referenced the fall they had taken long before they met Puck.

“Like he has time for your scraped knee!” the man answered with a laugh.

“Wait… so you’re telling me he exists, too?” they asked, once again getting distracted by minor details on their way to the point.

“Of course he does. Do you have any idea how many offerings that guy gets?”

Elliott thought about this. It made a certain amount of sense, in a totally nonsensical sort of way. 

“So I yelled ‘Oh god!’ and scraped my knee, and you just materialized?”

“Basically, yes.”

“In the form of a dog,” Elliott added, having finally put two and two together.

“Well… yes,” the man who Elliott had to accept was almost definitely Puck said with a sheepish look.

“Why a dog?”

“Much easier to take the form of something smaller than a human when you’ve just been freshly invoked.”

“I see…” Elliott’s mind was racing with all of the new information. “So then is that why you were a child before now?”

“You catch on fast. Your blood sacrifice gave me a form, and your offerings let me grow strong enough to become human.”

“By offerings do you, perhaps, mean dog biscuits?”

“Yes, but it sounds ridiculous when you put it that way. As I was saying, all of your offerings have given me strength, but it’s nothing compared to your belief.”

“I don’t think I’ve actually said I believe in you,” Elliott pointed out.

“You don’t have to. I can feel it. It was just a trickle at first, but now the dam has broken.”

Elliott sighed. It really was no use pretending anymore.

***

Elliott spent the rest of the week tying up loose ends and speaking with a lawyer. Then they contacted the lottery commission. Ian gave them a ride to meet with the officials, and Elliott presented their ticket and answered their questions, choosing the annuity payment plan and trying not to cringe at just how much of their first payment would immediately go to taxes.

At the end of the day on Friday they visited Mr. Price’s office and gave their two weeks' notice. They were about to become a full-time prophet.