t’s 11:13 P.M. in the café at Borders Books. I’m sitting at the table nearest the door because it’s near the only electrical outlet in the room. The store is overrun with an endless variety of Harry Potter look-alikes. And every little Hermione Granger who passes in and out the door bumps the table and causes me to emit two magical words — one mistyped, the other uttered under my breath.

Other than playing bumper cars with passing ankle biters, I’m having a pretty good time. I didn’t even mind paying $73.95, plus tax, for some kind of berry-filled muffin and a bottle of water.

My 10-year-old daughter and her friend are wandering around the store somewhere. They left me to guard the burgeoning treasury, booty from their many adventures that night. Surrounded by magic wands constructed from bamboo sticks, ribbons and feathers, cardboard treasure chests containing who knows what, and a small arsenal of glitter balloons, I’m ready to repel invading hoards sent by him whose name we dare not speak.

Continued...