My Fairy Godmother squinted at the pages. “Oh dear,” she muttered, “I’m getting too old for this…Destiny, be a lamb and hand me the spectacles on the table over there…” she waved her hand in the direction of a small coffee table.

I handed her the glasses and she slipped them on. “Ah, that’s better. Alright…page two thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine. Oh, wouldn’t you believe our luck, Destiny, I put a bookmark on the page.”

She opened the thick, ancient-looking book to the spot with a bookmark slipped between the pages. I looked over her shoulder. The Book of Children, I was realizing now, was a very, very long list of all the children in the world.

“Here you are,” my Fairy Godmother pointed to a line of minuscule type that read, Destiny Maria Michaels, Kansas City, Kansas; a sprig of hewullace, a golden fignut, the pit of an aerombie fruit, let simmer for 3.79 days; born March 30, 1993 to James and Leanna Michaels.

She smiled at me and closed the book.

“What,” I demanded, “Does that mean?”