When I was a kid growing up in the wizardless wastes of New Montana, I dreamed of someday paying the Dead-Eyed Ferryman my weight in bloodcoin and traveling over the Sleepless Hills into New York City. There was a glamour to it, a sense of possibility and neither too few nor too many spellcasters. And for a while, New York City was like that for me. I had lovers and apartments and few to no curses printed in ancient runes on my forehead.